I’ve recently lost my love affair with food. It’s not that I don’t appreciate it, or still get hungry, I am simply uninterested. I no longer have cravings, or a desire to taste the complexity of the unexpected, or the simplicity of the familiar. This is very strange as I come from a long line of food-for-festival people. We celebrate with food, we mourn with food, we are bored with food. We are Wisconsin people, and damn it, we love our food.
So it comes with great consternation that I neglect my familial roots and take this path (albeit most likely temporary) of complacency. Please do not misunderstand, it does come with a benefit…a sudden missing of 12 pounds in three weeks.
Tonight I ate. I possibly ate more than a kid’s meal sized portion and that alone is a huge step. Tomorrow I will attempt to eat for an adolescent.
My lack of food excitement in no way eliminates the possibility of great stories. For example, on our first night in Door County we were in this delightful little bar for dinner. I was slightly shocked that they had Ahi Tuna on the menu and I was sober enough to enquire the whereabouts. “Where does your Ahi come from?”, I asked. “Ahhhhhhh, from the Sysco truck”, was the response. Loved the answer and then chose something else. Honesty is never overrated.
The next morning we found ourselves a little local haunt and began yet another wonderful mother-daughter day. We were sitting on the patio and had just ordered when we noticed this horrible rumble coming from nearby. It was a truck. A meat processing truck. Yes, I said A MEAT PROCESSING TRUCK. We laughed and laughed until they needed to IV the Bloody Marys just so that we stayed hydrated.
Even during times of fasting, food still finds me. And in familial form I find it soothing and oh so comforting…even if it does come from the back of a mighty large white truck.