Epicuri-not

I'm going to go out on a not-so-shocking limb here and admit something that probably everyone who knows me has already figured out. Despite the fact that I am, inarguably, a full-grown and mostly responsible adult, my diet is not unlike that of a twelve-year-old who has foolishly and inexplicably been left to her own devices.

I don't mean to imply that I eat ice cream as a meal or consider ketchup a vegetable. (Not usually, anyway.) But I do somewhat routinely have cereal for dinner, and it has occurred to me to wonder how long one can subsist solely on the grains and starches slice of the food pyramid before showing early signs of scurvy. Does red wine count as a fruit serving? If so, that could bide me some time.

If I were truly a mature and self-reliant adult, I would understand that my eating habits are my own responsibility and that it's up to me to realize nutrients are important, buy the proper groceries, and learn to cook regular and reasonable meals. Since I'm lazy and I love a scapegoat, however, I'm going to blame my parents.

Don't get me wrong. My parents are good people. I may not agree with their politics, and I may find myself baffled by the quirks they acquire as they age, but I don't have a whole lot of qualms with how they raised me. I really do think they did a reasonably fine job of teaching me the sorts of things it's important to know to function as a productive adult. I can tie my shoes, match my clothes, ride a bike, drive a car, and balance my checkbook all because of the useful knowledge they bestowed. Unfortunately, it seems they skipped the chapter in the parenting handbook that deals with food and cooking. As a result, I have no idea what "normal" grown-ups eat, and I'd have little idea how to prepare things if I did.

I've said for years that it's not that I can't cook, but rather that I choose not to. That's really only half true, I guess. I can follow a recipe with fairly reliable success, but I have no idea how to whimsically toss things together to make a meal out of what's on hand. I never learned the importance of having the right things on hand to even attempt such a feat if I so chose. I think people pass on to their children the things that are meaningful and enjoyable to them. Since my mother didn't cook any more than absolutely necessary, she was never particularly concerned if I did either. As a result, I really never learned the basics. I can boil water, sure, and even bake a potato just fine, but I couldn't even make corn on the cob last summer without consulting the Internet for instructions. (Does it go in the water for two minutes or twenty? If I want to grill it, do I soak it first or not?) It's ludicrous, I realize, but this isn't innate knowledge. Someone has to teach you. In my case, no one did. Or, if they did, I had so little interest that the knowledge didn't stick, kind of like the way I never really learned the "right way" to fold sheets. (The fitted sheet is always a lumpy mess, and I can't help but imagine my mother's disappointment each time I try to smooth it out.)

Since I don't cook, I'm entirely confused by people who do, and who do so not just out of necessity but because they actually enjoy the process and not just the result. I'm awed when my friends describe meals that incorporate all major food groups--meals they created in their own home from reasonably fresh meat and whole, actual vegetables. Meals where the majority of the ingredients did not come from a box, can, or freezer package. Meals that involved slicing and dicing and at least four kitchen gadgets or appliances that I myself do not own. To me, preparing a meal like this on an average Tuesday (with no special occasion or visitor prompting it) is akin to churning my own butter in my backyard. It's simply an archaic and unnecessary concept I just cannot understand. Why would I go through all that work when I can just rip open a pack of Easy Mac or microwave a can of soup? Why should I buy fresh vegetables when they're just going to go bad before I can use them?

Some people, upon visiting friends' homes, like to peek in the medicine cabinet to see what's inside. Me--I'm more interested in the refrigerator. When a friend tells me to help myself to a drink, I can't help but quickly scan the contents of the fridge, and I'm often amazed by the wonders it holds. Ooh--polenta... what are you going to do with that? Really?--Edamame? You can buy that in a store? Hmm... Actual lettuce. Isn't it easier to get a bag of it, pre-chopped? Sprouts? You really like those? No one's forcing you to eat that? Wait, are those actual leftovers? You mean, you have a lunch to bring to work that's not frozen in a non-recyclable plastic tray?

It's amazing, really. A parallel universe, in a way.

Unfortunately, the older I get, the less acceptable it feels to be a kitchen incompetent, to shun broccoli like a child. In college, piling a stack of frozen pizzas in your grocery cart was the norm; now it's a little embarrassing. These days, every time I head to the grocery store, I tell myself, "I am going to buy real food." I swear I will do my shopping around the perimeter of the store, avoiding my usual stand-bys in the inner aisles and freezer cases. But every time, I wander the produce department thinking, "But I don't like any of this stuff." I stroll through the meat department and think, "What would I do with that?" Clearly the answer is to do my research ahead of time--to consult menus and web sites and make a proper list as a guide. Planning is rarely my strong point, it seems. So instead, each time, I find myself wanting to hide behind dark glasses as I shamefully pile box after box of processed, preservative-filled convenience foods on the conveyor belt at the register. And the whole process starts over again.

I have made some small steps to improve in specific areas. I buy my cereal from the organic & natural aisle, because the ingredients list on those varieties is generally just a few items long and consists of items I can actually pronounce and even identify. I try to avoid transfats, since I heard a nutritionist on NPR explain that they're just one molecule away from a plastic. (Even with my limited knowledge of nutrition, I know that can't be good.) I do wonder how much better I'd feel if I actually ate a real vegetable more than a couple times a month, if I got more of my nutrients from food instead of from the multivitamins I too often forget to take. But then, as in so many scenarios in life, I recall the proper Simpsons reference for the situation, and I remember everyone but Lisa doubling over in pain after a healthy and vegetable-heavy meal. And I think, maybe I've simply evolved. My body now relies on the preservatives... is in fact using them to morph me into some indestructible super-human with a rock-solid immune system. I actually haven't had a cold in well over a year; maybe I have the Freschettas and Easy Mac to thank.

It's a stretch, I realize. Just go with it, OK?