food

It’s hard to think of food, to describe it, recall it when you’re stuffed, waistband cutting across your swollen belly.  A bite here, a crunch there, shove, chew, savor, swallow, delightful, gorge-worthy.  Guilt and treadmills, sweat, sweat, gasping, incline higher.  In the end will any of it matter?  When you reach the end of your life will you think, chastising yourself “I wish I had enjoyed food less.  Eaten fewer crème brulées, not so many fries, one less gallon of ice cream?” No, of course not.  Well, you might if you have nearly killed yourself with food and can no longer walk, your heart weak as a kitten.  But 10 lbs. of vanity weight?  Regrets?  No.

You might wish there had been fewer processed, plastic-wrapped food-like substances purchased from gas stations.  You might wish for more perfect summer peaches, sweet, crisp, and juicy in equal parts, instead of mass-produced candy that leaves you wanting, leaves you hating your choice that day, that hour of self-abuse.

You might regret that cheap sparkling wine that you choked down because of its famous name and adorable packaging.  Another $20 and you could have avoided a headache.  Just imagine what if, at the end, you don’t think of food at all? What if it’s not steaming hot crepes smeared with Nutella in January?  Or the perfect peanut butter and jelly from your lunchbox, cut into four triangles?  You could remember you and your sweetheart’s first picnic, and only remember holding hands and the nap and the dog snoring in his sleep and not the homemade fried chicken you made to go with his favorite deli coleslaw, or maybe food would be woven into all the memories you collect at the end, like stacks of unsent postcards too special to mail away.