Fat Chance
A food writer leaves his profession to confront his relationship with food
The carcass stared back.
When I saw that pile of bones, it felt like a bucket of ice water dumped on my head — bucket included. That was when the switch flipped.
Screenwriters call this awakening “the inciting incident,” the moment when the protagonist reaches a fork in the road and chooses one of two paths. That fork for me was both figurative and literal. One night for dinner I bought one of those XXL rotisserie chickens from Costco. What happened next was all reflex and muscle memory. I planted myself in front of the TV and proceeded to hack into the bird with fork and knife. Half an hour later, I looked down: Three-quarters of the chicken was gone. I had no recollection of tasting anything.
The realization came that eating had become an act with no conscious thought involved. Millions of people who struggle with their weight know this all too well. For me, being overweight my entire adult life was exacerbated by my career choice as a food writer.
For many food writers, the line separating “eating for your job” and “eating to eat” blurs. I’d go to Whole Foods and expense a $35 ribeye steak on my corporate card, then justify it as recipe development. Or I’d stop by Wendy’s and try whatever new…
