I have confessed to eating some certain unsavory foods and admitted to engaging in questionable practices that may or may not have to do with “chicken flavored” instant ramen, national chain delivery pizza, and/or boxed cake mixes. However, I am at odds with myself on these issues, partially because I am slightly schizobloggic and mostly because I used the words “confess” and “admit.” It is my firm belief that both of these words, their synonyms, and all adverb, verb, noun and other structuro-grammatical forms of those words as they are used in the context of food should be banned from the foodish lexicon (along with the word “foodie,” but that’s another post).
Confession is the acknowledgment of guilt by a person accused of a crime or disclosure of sin to a priest to obtain absolution. “Confessing” implies that it is a criminal act to re-hydrate neon vegetables and shredded paper that has been chemically enhanced. “Admitting” insinuates that there is some inherent sinfulness to adding water, oil and eggs to a pale pink powder and calling it “baking.” Both words suggest that we regret our actions and thoughts. Is there anything really wrong with these or other practices that, day-to-day, we feel the need to hide but eventually, under the oppressive burden of silent, personal guilt, “confess?”
Why should you have to huddle in the corner of your darkened kitchen late at night when everyone else is asleep just to eat something that might not be considered “foodie” enough? You shouldn’t.
O, mine angels. In food, there is no sin.
(Besides, huddling in the corner of a darkened kitchen by yourself late at night is just weird.)
However, while I am philosophically opposed to the concept, no, the very existence of the words “confess” and “admit,” I am psychologically unable to absolve myself. I was brought up in a pseudo-religious household and I’ll be damned (literally) if an undercurrent of guilt that has been irreversibly programmed into my psyche during childhood isn’t hard to shake, even with three years of blogging-as-cheap-therapy. I should be ashamed. I am guilty. I am to blame. For everything. My parents don’t have a first-born son? It’s my fault for being born a girl. Not married? It’s my fault for being ugly. Ugly? It’s my fault for having bad skin. Bad skin? It’s my fault for not taking better care of it. My parents don’t have a first-born son? It’s my fault for being born a girl. Oh wait, I already said that. Well, it comes up a lot in my life.
And when it comes to food, I can’t help but feel like I engage in foodish behaviors for which the foodish foodie food gods would excommunicate me.
So even though I just dedicated an entire introductory paragraph to how the concept of guilt should be excommunicated from the food world, let this be the first in an irregularly regular series of posts entitled Culinary Confessions wherein we confess whatever happens to be weighing on our stomachs because once you step into the Delicious Confessional, you will be pardoned. And yes, I said “we” because let he who is without blame cast the first stove.
(Shit, I just took the Lord’s name in vain. Fuck, and I swore, too.)
Sometimes I make macaroni cheese from the blue box, and not just macaroni and cheese from the blue box, but macaroni and cheese from a blue box that is not the national, well-known and well-loved brand, but the grocery store’s significantly cheaper brand, and when I make it, I use water instead of milk because I don’t want to spend money on an entire half-gallon of milk just to one-time make cheap grocery store macaroni and cheese, and besides water is basically a transparent version of non-fat milk anyway.
But I always put hand-chopped fresh tomatoes in it!
Of course, don’t think I am above using chopped fresh tomatoes out of a can if I could find them!
Wait, is that possible? Never mind.
So there you have it.
If you love me, you will confess your convenience food sins too (even if you have to puss out and do it anonymously) so that I won’t be alone when I have to burn in Foodie Hell where Sandra Lee reigns as the Devil Queen with her lesbian she-devil lover, Rachael Ray.