Snacks
Author's note: This piece was originally intended to be published on another site. They called dibs. They lost.
Food has always been a big part of my life. As a boy I learned the barter system through an intricate series of complex deals involving Teddy Grahams. I learned the nature of worth and the art of negotiation. I turned into MacGyver; getting whatever I wanted with nothing more than celery, raisins, and peanut butter garnished in a glitzy "ants on a log" presentation. Those were heady days indeed. During my formative years I cultivated a staid routine of meals and favorites. I was never adventurous; upon realizing what calamari was I went into a frantic jig. My brother was often scolded for having an extremely small palette but he's carried that quality -- being a "picky eater" -- into his life today. The man knows what he wants and goes after it. That and he still asks for buttered noodles in four-star restaurants.
One afternoon in high school my ilk and I were having a discussion about which meal was the best. Many chose dinner as having achieved the tier of being an event. You don't see any awards show tables littered with eggs benedict. Lunch also had its supporters, namely the jocks. The athletes could formulate concise, persuasive arguments for cold cuts while struggling epically to write an essay on "The A&P" or "Ethan Frome". Everyone agreed breakfast was a great meal, reliable at any time of the day or night. I stayed quiet, unable to commit because nothing set the three squares apart but time. Then Brian, our host and the most adept of us all, spoke. He said that for his money, the best meal was snacks, hands down. Of course, I thought, how could I have been so blind? Everyone has had a less than stellar experience with a dish at one point or another but snacks are a different animal. Brian reminded us of the joy that would fill our young souls when we came home from school and Mom had a snack waiting. The moment of anticipation before opening the pantry on grocery day. The sun dipped lower in the west & the ilk nitpicked over details but for all intents and purposes the argument had been won. Snacks are far superior.
In college my experiences with food became more primal, more carnal. I learned that, as opposed to the rather rigid structure of meals I'd been raised on, all bets and timetables were off. My freshman year I dined at the Waffle House one hundred nights in a row. My father fearfully tested my cholesterol, expecting me dead within the hour. Tuns out I possessed the lowest cholesterol he'd ever seen, thoroughly stumping a medical professional & further proving that I very well may be an X-man. Pizza blossomed in college, expressing its ubiquitous potential as a meal for any time. Gradually, items were selected not for taste but rather how well they complimented whatever alcoholic beverage was being consumed at the time. Thus is the nature of things.
Food continues to be play a major role in my life. I live in Los Angeles, a town that's basically one giant buffet. I still stick to my guns, but occasionally go wild with a new and exciting ethnic dining experience. I'm in the real world now, I'm my own man, and damnit, I'll eat Armenian if I want to. As my consumption horizons broaden, I feel I'm getting more out of life somehow. Besides, if it turns out I do not like Armenian the cupboard next to the sink is consistently filled with all manner of chips, crackers and cookies.
- smokey
Food has always been a big part of my life. As a boy I learned the barter system through an intricate series of complex deals involving Teddy Grahams. I learned the nature of worth and the art of negotiation. I turned into MacGyver; getting whatever I wanted with nothing more than celery, raisins, and peanut butter garnished in a glitzy "ants on a log" presentation. Those were heady days indeed. During my formative years I cultivated a staid routine of meals and favorites. I was never adventurous; upon realizing what calamari was I went into a frantic jig. My brother was often scolded for having an extremely small palette but he's carried that quality -- being a "picky eater" -- into his life today. The man knows what he wants and goes after it. That and he still asks for buttered noodles in four-star restaurants.
One afternoon in high school my ilk and I were having a discussion about which meal was the best. Many chose dinner as having achieved the tier of being an event. You don't see any awards show tables littered with eggs benedict. Lunch also had its supporters, namely the jocks. The athletes could formulate concise, persuasive arguments for cold cuts while struggling epically to write an essay on "The A&P" or "Ethan Frome". Everyone agreed breakfast was a great meal, reliable at any time of the day or night. I stayed quiet, unable to commit because nothing set the three squares apart but time. Then Brian, our host and the most adept of us all, spoke. He said that for his money, the best meal was snacks, hands down. Of course, I thought, how could I have been so blind? Everyone has had a less than stellar experience with a dish at one point or another but snacks are a different animal. Brian reminded us of the joy that would fill our young souls when we came home from school and Mom had a snack waiting. The moment of anticipation before opening the pantry on grocery day. The sun dipped lower in the west & the ilk nitpicked over details but for all intents and purposes the argument had been won. Snacks are far superior.
In college my experiences with food became more primal, more carnal. I learned that, as opposed to the rather rigid structure of meals I'd been raised on, all bets and timetables were off. My freshman year I dined at the Waffle House one hundred nights in a row. My father fearfully tested my cholesterol, expecting me dead within the hour. Tuns out I possessed the lowest cholesterol he'd ever seen, thoroughly stumping a medical professional & further proving that I very well may be an X-man. Pizza blossomed in college, expressing its ubiquitous potential as a meal for any time. Gradually, items were selected not for taste but rather how well they complimented whatever alcoholic beverage was being consumed at the time. Thus is the nature of things.
Food continues to be play a major role in my life. I live in Los Angeles, a town that's basically one giant buffet. I still stick to my guns, but occasionally go wild with a new and exciting ethnic dining experience. I'm in the real world now, I'm my own man, and damnit, I'll eat Armenian if I want to. As my consumption horizons broaden, I feel I'm getting more out of life somehow. Besides, if it turns out I do not like Armenian the cupboard next to the sink is consistently filled with all manner of chips, crackers and cookies.
- smokey
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on Wednesday, July 20, 2005 at 10:06 PM.
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