I love food.
I like eating it, I like cooking it, I like sharing it. I go to bed excited about breakfast. I am a foodie and I don’t care who knows it. I struggle with Kate Moss’ assertation that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”; has she never eaten cake? Or Crunchy-Nut Cornflakes? Or Asparagus dipped in garlic butter and sprinkled with sea salt? This is a real shame for her, because these are really nice things.
I wasn’t always of this mindset. Not long ago I was a teenage girl, ensconced by graphs and counsellors and ridiculous hypnotherapy c.d.’s. A grumpy, sleepy, whiney girl, nibbling on rice-cakes and weeping on train-stations. I look back and wonder how one person could survive at that level of annoying without being punched in the face. Moreover, how one person can survive at all without fuel. Because ultimately, that’s what it is. Tasty, necessary, fuel.
Regardless of its necessity, eating feels good. I’m not talking whole tubs of ice-cream or consecutive boxes of custard creams, (these moments are saved for comfort in the face of real disasters). But warm croissants, a home cooked chilli, even a cheeky McDonalds after a night out; these might just be some of the sweetest pleasures life has to offer. The deprivation of which seems needless, and a little bit sadistic.
The New Year has brought with it its regular portion of quick-fix diets and work-out videos, joggers overwhelm the streets and even my beautiful boyfriend has joined the gym. Now I’m all for more sexy bodies this year, I just hope none of them forget the joy of eating dinner with a glass of delicious, calorific wine. I don’t want to be the only one eating McDonald’s at 3 in the morning. But if I am, I bet I’m the one still dancing.