So. Here’s what I’d like to do:
I’d like to call up every company on the planet who ever dared package a collection of sugar and salt and cinnamon, wrapping it up all prettily, decorating their cardboard boxes with vibrant colors and dancing animals, shoving it all right in my face... I’d like to call them up, and slap them. Shake them. Shove them, just like they shoved me. Right there, across the span of space and time, shove them all through the telephone.
Why, you ask, the sudden burst of angst? Because these companies have given me a serious, undeniable problem, and that problem is the hole burning its way gracefully through my wallet.
My fellow college compadres, can I get a “hallelujah” on this one? Food is making me broke, and though it feels so undeniably luxurious in the moment, it’s horrifying. My money grows wings and flies the coop of my weak possession as soon as it gets a whiff of guacamole or ice cream or the blended mocha javas at Brody. I’m admitting my problem — I’m addicted. I, like all who I know, am a slave to my stomach. And it’s a destructive relationship built to last.
It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly I realized I was addicted to food, when exactly it hit me that the consumer-oriented businesses of the world would have me in their vicious clutch for as long as I shall live, but it definitely Happened, with a capital H. There was a turning point. There was a moment when my whole orally-focused life flashed before me, and it all began to sink in.
Perhaps it was Gilmore Girls. My favorite show, from ages nine to 14 (to present), taught me a lot. It taught me how to talk faster than a radio announcer while interjecting witty comebacks and obscure pop culture references at every possible opportunity. It taught me how to read intellectual novels and watch quirky films on Friday nights with my parents. It taught me how to love my mother like a best friend. And, before the mushiness overtakes me, here’s the point I was trying to make: It taught me about food.
It gave me a solid, passionate, head-over-heels adoration for food. And coffee. TheGilmore Girls’s speed-talking thing, as any television-savvy, college-aged female would know, would be absolutely nothing if not for their strong doses of caffeine. Watching Lorelai and Rory Gilmore tear down Stars Hollow in my middle school years, I recall gawking at the sheer volume of caffeinated liquid that passed through their lips. Dear God, I thought, how do they process all that?
And not just the coffee — no, no, no — because that would be only minorly appalling. The Dear-God-how-do-they-digest-that also comments on food, stacks on stacks on stacks of snacks and desserts and full-on filet mignons, shoved into the lovely Gilmore Girls’ mouths on a regular basis. I honestly found it quite impressive. Their speed. Their sheer stamina. Anybody who follows up a burger with a cheesecake and a milkshake is an MVP in my book. That’s a way to live your life.
All of this may sound tongue-in-cheek, but really, I was impressed with the Gilmore Girls. I wasn’t disgusted by their food and coffee intake like I kind of expected myself to be, but rather I was intrigued. This was the first television program I’d ever seen that had actually actively displayed mealtimes, showing realistically — or perhaps a little exaggeratedly — the amount of edible delectables the human race actually consumes. It’s remarkable when you notice it. And so I watched with intrigue as the Gilmore Girls had cupcakes and burgers and pasta and muffins — and not just “had” it, but relished in it, raved about it, talked about it ad infinitum. They were unabashedly food-obsessed. And I guess that’s when it occurred to me — it’s okay if I’m food-obsessed too.
Because, well, I am. I always have been, a little bit. At least, it was always bound to happen. Calorie-induced energy is an undeniable necessity — food will always be a part of my life, a staple of my days, and an event in and of itself, every time. Gilmore Girls was the gentle hit-over-the-head reminder that my food addiction was real, and it was never really going to go away.
But here’s what I told myself, somewhere in between the ages of nine and 14: If I’m going to be food-obsessed, I’m going to do it right. Gilmore Girls, food-raving, food-loving right. I’m going to relish in foreign cuisines and well-made meals and multiple courses and taste testings. Gilmore Girls, essentially, inspired me to be a foodie.
And thus, though it pains me to say it, it’s also kind of Gilmore Girls who brought me here, empty-walleted, about to call up the Food and Drug Administration and demand an explanation for their temptations and their cruelty. Cruelty. But alas — it’s a necessary, delicious evil. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
