Nowadays it is conventional to believe that emotional eating is unhealthy, but the truth is that emotions are so strongly mixed into every ingredient of a meal that the two are inseparable.

Why is it that our memories of eating are often so much stronger, more vivid than our memories of anything else? First-grade strawberry birthday popsicles. Peanut-butter-and-jelly, half thrown away. Turkey for Thanksgiving, and then cold turkey the whole week after. I don’t remember, really, what dress I wore to the birthday; I don’t remember what I did after lunch in the cafeteria, and I can’t recall that year whether or not Grandma was at our house.

It’s not simply that perhaps I have an irregular preoccupation with food; there are for certain a great deal of people with less interest than I in cooking and dining, but then again also a great deal with more. Eating combines the physical with the social, with which the emotional is undeniably inextricable. Food memories are persistent because they involve strong stimulation of all five physical senses (seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and touching) all centered around a social function or a cultural dictation; eating a meal is both an event and an action and an indication. The food we eat (along with the food that we do not permit ourselves to consume) form little landmarks in our lives.

On a cloudy, chilly, groggy Friday like this, I pull out the warm memory of a feast at summer’s end. It nourishes my soul. It grounds my mind. It pulls me from the dark, floating, philosophical clouds above, to the concrete, Epicurean joys of physical Earth.


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I guess I haven’t blogged in a long time because a) I’ve been busy and b) I’m hesitant to write unless I have something worthwhile to say. And while it is fun to rant, I want to avoid ranting my head off, because I do feel as if all I say ends up being a first-world problem sort of thing I need to re-evaluate my writing. It is as important to me to become a better writer as it is to get my thoughts across, and questions I want to ask myself more often are: is this even good journalism? And if not journalism, is this good fiction? Non-fiction? Etc.

As I begin senior year, I finally have some space for electives, and as a result I’m trying to work on stretching my creativity in my spare time. This means just living with a sense of orbiting in a slightly different sphere than I do when I’m in hardcore analytic mode. I’m not sure if that even makes sense at all but it’s 1:30 am right now and I’m avoiding my problem set.

The only analogy I have is this:
If you’re bilingual, do you know that feeling, where you kind of just “tune in” to another language, not even switch gears but just slightly adjust the radio knob to receive a different wavelength? That’s how I feel about the creative state of mind. You know that it’s there and a language you can speak but there are others equally adequate and all of them interesting to use, but also that if you don’t speak it for a while all of a sudden you’re fumbling over verbs and names. Whatever language you use in your daily life will be the easiest and sharpest tool, but you know the feelings of the words and sounds of the mother tongue.

OK. That was also probably incoherent. Mostly I just mean that I’m trying to dedicate real time and effort to work on bending the only real Medium I possess on this Earth– my body (and mind) to wring out even an ounce of art (and by art I mean feeling) from it: whether it be through movement, drawing, or fiction. I’m trying to really work on some purely expressive forms.

Guten Nacht!

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