Why do we eat?

“Food is fuel,” some nutritionists say. In that case, couldn’t we just eat a bowl of multivitamins with protein powder and call it a day?

Although I am no nutritionist, I will respectfully disagree. “Food is life,” I say. Literally and figuratively. Obviously we need calories from a variety of sources for physical survival and good health, but the traditions, mores, and rituals that surround food go worlds beyond simply filling an empty belly.

Food can fill hearts, minds, and souls. Good food. Real food. Not processed, packaged, preserved things that our grandmothers wouldn’t even recognize as edible. Things with ingredients that come from nature and can be easily pronounced by any third-grader. Things that come from healthy land and healthy animals. Things that do not come through a window into your car. We as a society have lost sight of the adage that “You are what you eat.” If that’s the case, we’re worse off than we realize.

Being from New Orleans means that I’ve grown up in a food-centric culture. During a meal, if we aren’t talking about that current meal, we’re talking about previous meals we’ve eaten or meals we want to eat in the future. Not only is it significant in that sentence that food is the main topic of conversation, it’s significant that there is, in fact, conversation. Gathering around a table as a family or group has been tradition since humans were squatting around cave fires. Somewhere along the way, a drive-thru burger eaten alone has become the norm, and society has lost that human connection that happens so easily and naturally while communing around a meal.

Some of my fondest memories revolve around the dining table. Flaky, crispy Thanksgiving turkey pastries at my grandmother’s house with the whole family…an icy sweet tea and crawfish poboy in the French Quarter with an old friend…chocolate-chip Mickey Mouse pancakes with my husband and daughter on a quiet Sunday morning…fruits and brownies dipped into molten chocolate with friends on Girls’ Night Out…it’s an endless list that could continue for pages.

The point is that food has become an afterthought in our worlds, and as a result, we no longer have the respect for food we once did, and in turn, have lost respect for ourselves in the process. Parents stand by idly while their children gorge themselves on sugar and junk at school and don’t think twice about pizza or Chinese take-out three nights a week. More care is spent choosing a cell-phone plan than is spent choosing what we put into our bodies. Just last night on TV, I saw a restaurant owner admit that he wouldn’t feed his children what he serves his customers. When we watch the news at night and see the atrocious behavior of some individuals, or when the “old folks” start to get misty about “the good ol’ days,” maybe we should start looking for solutions in our kitchens and dining rooms. If people have time to shop and play Facebook games and do all the other wasteful things people do, then there’s definitely time to prepare a real meal with love and share it with those we care for.

You Ought to Go See the Mardi Gras...

Floats pass, one by one, glittering shamelessly in the sunlight, blinding in their technicolor glory.

Metallic strands of beads create rainbows as they corkscrew through the air into upstretched hands, grasped mid-flight. Some are draped proudly around decorated necks, some get dragged into a vicious tug-of-war.

Masked riders sway and bump without a care as the tractor pulls the float down the aisle made by the sidewalk and the neutral ground. They scan the crowds for the next person deserving of the wares they're bestowing.

Another float, and then a band. School colors so bright, they bleed into the air. The drum major shimmies ahead of his flock, keeping time for the mirror-like chrome of the bass drum and the polished brass of the tuba. Dancers, cheerleaders, and majorettes follow, high-stepping to the beat in tasseled leather boots.

Another float, another band, punctuated by leprechaun-esque shriners tossing Tootsie Rolls from mopeds, beauty queens smiling their Colgate grins from vintage convertibles, and the city's finest officials shmoozing from atop gilded horses.

The crowd ebbs and flows like waves, pushing toward the passing floats at high tide, pulling back to let the bands pass at low tide. The day progresses, strangers become friends, plans are made to meet next year, same corner, bring ya mama. There is no prejudice. There are no age limits, there are no gender lines to cross, and the only colors are purple, gold, and green.

This is Mardi Gras.

A Nice Guy Like You

An artist, but one with a day job. The whole romantic “starving artist” idea is nice in theory, but the people that live it tend to be odd. Mid-20’s. Best feature by far is that this person is grounded. Realistic. Sensible, but still hasn’t lost his sense of fun. Not perfect. A tendency to talk before thinking, but not in such a way to be offensive. A tiny bit disheveled, not always moussed and buffed and perfect. Just comfortable in the skin he was given.

Jeff thinks all this as he looks in the mirror. He knows all of this about himself to be true. He knows it. But…

He can’t shake the feeling that his eyes aren’t his own, his clothes not what he picked, his hands not controlled by his brain.

He tries to remember what’s happened today. Waking up on the futon in his studio, cramped and sore from sleeping in an awkward position. Walking Guinness to the park and back, stopping for a newspaper and an iced chai. Coming home, showering, and heading for the Visual Arts 101 class that he’s teaching in exchange for graduate tuition this semester.

This is where he gets lost. He knows he put on his paint-stained jeans and shirt today, because the class is working with oils and it gets messy. Everything after that is blank. Not hazy, not fuzzy. Blank. Nonexistent. Gone.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, but now, standing alone in his tiny bathroom, the moon as the only source of light, he knows he has to talk to someone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He wakes up to the sound of jogging feet. Get up quick, get moving, get going before the cops come around. He’s been lucky with this bench so far. It’s never taken at night, it’s close to a cozy place for Guinness, and it faces the sunrise that reminds him that he was once an artist. Now, he’s just another street bum, too proud to admit to the schizophrenia that now defines him.