Initially, I would tell you I’m not fussy about my food.
However, that would be a big fat lie.
The truth is, I think about what I eat. Not obsessively, and certainly not because I require some sophisticated culinary experience every time I sit down at the table. Nobody needs to arrange three green beans artistically across my plate and drizzle something around them that I’m apparently supposed to admire rather than eat.
My considerations are considerably more practical.
Some are religious.
Some are medical.
And somewhere underneath all that responsibility is the simple matter of whether I actually want to eat the damn thing.
As a Muslim, there are boundaries around what I eat. Pork and its derivatives aren’t part of my diet, and when it comes to meat, I prefer halal.
That creates a practical problem where I live.
There isn’t a halal butcher nearby, so getting meat requires planning. I have to travel for it, which usually means buying enough to make the trip worthwhile and making room in the freezer when I get home.
Apparently, even dinner requires logistics.
Islam makes allowances for genuine mistakes and circumstances beyond our control. I will also use kosher-prepared food in a pinch, while still paying attention to what is actually in it. Kosher and halal aren’t identical, and there are differences of scholarly opinion concerning some of the particulars.
But when I have the choice, I choose halal.
I don’t mess around with that.
Then there is the other consideration.
I’m diabetic and hypertensive.
My doctor, my body, and occasionally my common sense have formed a committee regarding what I should eat. I don’t remember voting for any of them, but apparently they have jurisdiction.
That means something can be perfectly acceptable according to my faith and still not be a particularly wise thing for me to eat.
There are foods I enjoy that I may pass on because I know how they affect me. Sometimes the issue isn’t the food itself but the amount or how it has been prepared. Something doesn’t magically stop looking good because I know I shouldn’t have it.
A slice of cake has never once looked at me and said, “Mangus, you should probably reconsider.”
Cake has no integrity.
Unfortunately, my body has never been particularly impressed by my arguments either.
So I make choices.
Sometimes I eat less of something. Sometimes I change how I prepare it. Sometimes I substitute something else. And sometimes I simply don’t eat it while silently resenting everyone who can.
I never claimed enlightenment.
After enough years inhabiting the same body, you learn that wanting something and needing something are two entirely different conversations.
Cooking at home makes those conversations easier.
I control what comes into the kitchen. I know what’s in the food, and I can adjust what needs adjusting without sacrificing everything I enjoy about eating. Healthy does not have to mean sentencing yourself to a lifetime of culinary sadness.
Because if the solution to living longer is eating food that makes those additional years feel considerably longer, somebody has misunderstood the assignment.
Perhaps that is where the original question becomes more complicated than it first appears.
Put a plate in front of me and I might say, “No, thank you.”
From across the table, that can look like I’m being fussy.
What you don’t know is why I said no.
Maybe my faith says no.
Maybe my health suggests that I should know better.
Maybe I simply don’t like the damn thing.
Those aren’t the same decisions.
There are foods I cannot eat according to my faith. There are others I could eat but sometimes choose not to because the consequences aren’t worth it. Then there are the things I simply don’t want.
And no, everything I refuse does not require a philosophical explanation.
Sometimes broccoli is just broccoli.
Somewhere along the way, though, I’ve had to learn the difference between deprivation and discipline.
One says, I can’t have that.
The other says, I could, but I’ve decided something else matters more.
That distinction reaches considerably farther than my kitchen.
Faith requires choices even when nobody else is watching. Taking care of yourself requires choices even when the thing you’re turning down would be considerably more enjoyable than the sensible alternative. Neither feels particularly dramatic while you’re standing in front of the refrigerator deciding what to make for dinner.
Most discipline doesn’t.
It looks remarkably ordinary from the outside.
So, how fussy am I about food?
Probably less than it appears.
Faith determines some of what I may eat. My health influences some of what I should eat. Personal preference handles the rest.
And every now and then, I look at something I absolutely should not eat and briefly consider presenting my case before a higher court.
So far, common sense has a winning record.
Mostly.
The plate isn’t defined by everything I’ve had to remove from it.
It’s defined by what I choose to put there.
Author’s Note: A quick thank you to Sadje for providing such an intriguing question for Sunday Poser. What looked like a simple question about being fussy with food turned out to have considerably more hiding beneath the plate. Funny how the best questions tend to do that.
Memoirs of Madness 