I think I shall vomit now.

There is a skill level not attainable by everyone when it comes to the art of over-eating. I still believe my younger brother holds that title - as a growing teenage boy, I once saw him consume 15+ pieces of meat at a Brazilian steakhouse - the kind where you pay a flat entree fee and the animal products are unlimited. Even as we all sat groaning, holding onto our rotund food babies for dear life, he was searching for the next waiter who'd walk by with yet another tasty morsel.
It was grotesque, but nonetheless fascinating. The same sort of thing you feel watching Joey Chestnut decimate an entire farm's worth of hot dogs at those annual Nathan's competition. The same reason why we can't look away from the climactic horror scene in the latest Halloween franchise film.

I'm writing from experience, clearly; not just the observance of over-eating but the feeling of it within myself. Take right now, for existence. After three days of truly successful, careful and healthy portioning, combined with good exercise regimes including both cardio and weights, I came in to work today and made mistakes. BIG mistakes.

My first was to nibble on the chocolate chip cookie bars brought in by a woman who knows her shit when it comes to baking. They were still gooey - half-cooked and warm - sopping with chocolate and whispering quietly... "I'm going straight to your ass, baby."
Then there was lunch. The office brings in donated lunches and charges 5 dollars which goes to charity - cash or check accepted with pleasure and thanks. I paid with check... and ate KFC. Yes, it was the grilled chicken, and I skipped the coleslaw because I find that stuff generally repulsive, but it all still adds up to one cookie bar, 1 grilled chicken breast, 1 grilled chicken leg, a small mound of mashed potatoes and gravy and... a biscuit.

I think I shall die shortly.

There is no pleasure involved here. I ate it all like a prison inmate given his last meal - quickly, without tasting, ignoring the implications of what was going down the gullet. My unthinking, irresponsible face. And for the past half hour, I have only been naseous. I have promised myself a walk when I get home, a simple salad for dinner to make up for today's foolish choices. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves? If there was never any pleasure associated with the experience, then WHY DID I DO IT?

Chubby people should have an insurance allotment for overeating therapy. Food is pain, man.

My ultimate girl-crush

This man. This man right here.




I've read his book, and watched nearly every episode of his show - I'm just in awe of the man, and what he's spent his life doing. I can only imagine that in between episodes, or chapters, he's leading a monastic life of self-starvation, because I don't know how he walks after eating some of the shit he's eaten. He is a foodie god, specifically because he would probably never term himself that, and balk at the prospect.

I love his anecdotes about night after night spent in sweaty kitchens, shooting up heroin to stay awake and banging nameless women-who-may-be-whores in the early-morning hours in dark alleyways before returning to his lair of the week to put together the produce list. It's a window into a world I will never know - New York City in the 1980's - gritty, seamy, dirty fun. And here's the guy who survived it, eating a live octopus in some southeast Asian street shack, choking and laughing and describing the experience moment by moment.
What a sexy motherfucker.

This year he's sticking to the US, which is refreshing and pretty awesome. There is now a Sri Lankan restaurant I HAVE to visit in Staten Island, and I can't wait to get to the remote fish smokehouse under that one bridge outside of Chicago. He and his weird-ass tour guides can make everything look delicious, and sinful, and necessary to experience before I die.

I'm glad he's able to find so much that he loves here in the states - I've always agreed with his biggest complaint, and that is the total lack of quality in American street food - namely, Fast Food Nation. When we want something quick, it's Mickey D's, or Arby's, or something else equally disgusting. When you need something quick in Singapore, it's hand-made noodles, rich broth, fresh veggies. Street does not equal unhealthy - and in turn, the people are healthy too. In that Time Magazine article I posted this weekend, the most fascinating part to me was the moment where the author suggested that McDonalds placed playgrounds inside their "restaurants" just so the kids get themselves a little more hungry by running around a bit, and therefore ingest more crap. We kill ourselves a little every time we eat.

But when Anthony Bourdain eats, he eats like a king. And it reminds me, every time, of what a meal SHOULD be: a sublime all-sense experience, fulfilling but not overwhelming, savory and of course, accompanied by a really good beer. That's the kind of experience I look forward to when I'm lucky enough to have the chance.
Plus, Anthony is sexy as hell, no?

Brie

Tonight was a great evening, networking with women that do the same thing I do, on the side - sell Stella & Dot jewelry. We met on the second floor of Duck & Decanter, a posh central Phoenix spot.
They're all a little older, and like 90% have tiny, tiny children. Not my age bracket, not my income level. But lovely people, no doubt. This side business has been a little intimidating - although the potential to make real money is definitely there.
You don't care about any of that shit.

The reason I'm referring to tonight's soiree... is what they served. And what they served... was brie.

Now, I consider myself to be a foodie. I love food. Worship food. I take special delight in trying out a new restaurant, going to a new place and stuffing my maw with arugula, and dark chocolate, and other such morsels. Growing up, my mom was always a stay at home parent, and our Jewish and Turkish cultures meant every meal was an insane feast. As a young swimmer, I'd get out of my 2-hour practice, enter the minivan, and my mother would have a warm 3 or 4-dish tupperware filled with homemade goodies. And that was before dinner. We'd rotate our vacation days around the spot we'd picked for each and every meal.
My LIFE was food.

In the last few years that I've been on my own, my foodie requirements have changed. Meals normally consist of a grilled protein and veggie, breakfast is steel-cut oatmeal w/ peanut butter or granola(which my mother makes from scratch and mails me, but that's a different story) and I tend to piece together my foodstuffs from the average, garden-variety ingredients in the fridge.

I don't buy brie. Who can afford brie? This particular brie was French, speckled with blue, so soft on the inside it oozed. It was served with a white wine. I didn't even bother checking the label. I grabbed a glass and a heart-shaped cracker... a plastic knife... and dug in.
I think I moaned. In the meeting. With the moms, and their jewelry-selling tips.
I may also have had two glasses of wine, and may have quickly begun to discuss the cheese and how good it was with anyone who would listen.

"I know... yes, the Adrienne necklace looks divine as a headband... did you taste the rind? Sometimes the nasty part of the brie is the rind but in this case it's like... the crust on the pie... No, there's hardly any left, you can't try it. Don't... stop reaching for it. It's my... BACK OFF BITCH!"

No wonder I never get anything done. Is it possible to have self-induced ADD? Is that a thing, with a diagnosis, and a treatment? The last thing I remember, I was glaring at this woman with her gall and her high-falutin' superiority complex, requesting the food basket be sent her way. There may have been growling.

I need to buy some fucking brie.