A master's thesis is a fascinating beast. I've quickly learned just how much it demands commitment, passion, and tireless effort. As such, my preferred mental break--besides writing an email to friends in Paris or crossing paths with another in New York--is magazines, those same ones I thought I'd wanted to work for just
a few years ago. They're mostly light, inspiring reads. There is one common thread that's been bothering me in particular though: weight loss stories that begin with a women raised on food as love.
Food as love is not "the problem." Food is how we nourish ourselves and each other, share traditional memories, create celebratory moments together. Nothing about the affectionate nature of a meal prepared and enjoyed among others is problematic. Then again, I'm referring to a degree of appreciation for the experience that is often associate with
the French; a secret cultural formula to being thin on wine, bread, cheese, and cream. What we may not realize is that the "secret" is literally taught, in the home and classroom.
At the molecular level, yes, food is fuel. But the human touch adds love, and we've been cultivating it into cuisines around the world for centuries.
While in the Jura, I recall Claire telling us about French researchers that led a group of overweight men and women through a weight loss program focused, not on extreme exercise nor culinary deprivation, but a conscious respect for food itself. They learned how to taste. And in doing so, they also lost a healthy amount of weight and were able to keep it off.
We're privileged to be able to choose what we eat, where, and how. From most disciplines, academics have proven that “what kind of food one eats and how – organic, healthy, local, processed, vegan, or ethnic – is a serious cultural and political issue with vital consequences for one’s cultural lifestyle and identity,” (Hirose and Pih 1483). That's why I'm so curious to look at how 'global cities' define local cuisine and who participates in the process. It's also why I loved Saturday night's dinner with my brother. Before he went back to Arizona, we dined on delectable French dishes (a shared
petit plateau from the oyster bar, bowl of chestnut soup, and lamb shank with carrots and potatoes), wine, and espresso at a restaurant with
his namesake. We had such a good time. I told him all about my thesis research; he shared his judgement of the restaurant... :) he's become especially opinionated since working at
Fortina's. He spoke about his spring semester schedule and hopes for the future, too. What if food is, and should always be, love?
