The primal fact of hunting and/or being hunted, and the inescapable demands of hunger, have largely defined animal life on earth, and are undoubtedly among the key engines driving evolution. We are what we are largely because we must eat—and have lived in danger of being eaten. Dean William R. Inge, the “Gloomy Dean,” isn’t far wrong when he says, “The whole of nature is a conjugation of the verb to eat, in the active and the passive.”
Conclusion: Let’s mix up a cumin-scented summer bean salad, a marinated heirloom tomato soup, and finish it off with a sweet-tart fresh mint sauce, because eating is pretty much what it’s all about.
I’ve long been annoyed by culinaryism and food snobbery but I haven’t tried until now to figure out why.
Background: My diet is extremely boring. At least half of my calories come from three things: peanuts (unsalted), raisins (plain, store-brand), and dark chocolate (baking chips). When people learn this, the general reaction is along the lines of, “Oh my Gaga, I’d die! How does that not get boring?!”
I think what irks me is that people seem to think that eating interesting foods makes life more interesting or (worse) makes them more interesting. I suppose it’s possible that it does, but it seems more likely that it does the opposite.
I’ll savor a good umami Indian dish as much as the next upper middle class whitie, but – personal preference – I really do not want to be that guy who takes pictures of his food. Nor do I want to spend my afternoons or evenings pondering the ever-important question of what sides to have with my swiss chard pancakes.
I’m not saying that swiss chard pancakes aren’t interesting; I’m just saying that there are some things about the universe that seem more deserving of my interest and attention.
My friend Pavs is annoyed by my annoyance with culinaryism. To paraphrase what I understand to be his perspective, all people have their own arbitrary set of interests, and mine is no better or less arbitrary than the food snobs’s (or “aficionados,” if you prefer). It’s a fair point. But it doesn’t feel true. Here’s where I bust out my own snobbery: If you truly understand yourself to be a vaporous transient consciousness in an incidental universe who is moments removed from a time when we were hunted as much as we hunted, and moments away from being dead, then it’s hard for me to believe that you would get excited over summer bean salads.
Of course the same could be said for many other (non-culinary) interests. How do I justify my interest in LeBron James, for example? I don’t, and I’m not going to try. But I think maybe if there is anything unique about culinaryism as an interest, it is that is seems to be especially absent of metaphor. There’s just very little depth behind it that I can see.
This post is now two paragraphs longer than it should be but I just have to ruin it with one last analogy. Culinaryism seems to me a lot like party rock. You’re playing with combinations of ingredients (sounds) until you find one that’s tasty (dance-worthy), but it’s not art because it’s not communication. The only thing it has to give is pleasure.
