A Complicated Relationship with Food 

I have a very interesting—and complicated—love affair with food. Not an unhealthy relationship. Not necessarily. I mean, I’m not saying food has control over me. I’m simply saying that if food ever needed a restraining order, there would probably be some very uncomfortable questions asked in court.

Because I love food. I genuinely love food.

I love vegetables. There. I said it. Vegetables. Give me a plate of roasted vegetables and I’m happy. Carrots caramelized around the edges until they’re sweet and slightly charred. Bell peppers blistered until their skins wrinkle and blacken in little spots. Zucchini soft in the middle, browned along the edges. Onions that have surrendered completely to the heat, becoming sweet, dark, and almost buttery. I don’t eat vegetables because somebody told me they’re good for me. I eat them because they’re good.

Fruit is the same way. A cold, perfectly ripe peach that gives just a little when you bite into it and immediately starts running down your wrist. A mango so ripe it practically falls apart when you touch it. A cold watermelon on a hot day. Strawberries. Oranges. Pineapple. Grapes straight from the refrigerator when they’re so cold they make your teeth hurt. I love fruit. Fruit has never betrayed me. Fruit doesn’t ask anything of me. Fruit simply shows up, looks beautiful, smells wonderful, and says, Here. Eat me. And I do. Happily.

Then there’s chicken.

I love chicken. And this is where things start getting complicated.

Because chicken is versatile. Chicken doesn’t demand attention. Chicken doesn’t need to be the star of the evening. Chicken is perfectly comfortable sitting quietly in the background while everyone else is trying to impress you.

Grilled chicken. The smell alone should be illegal. That first wave of smoke and char coming off the grill, the skin sizzling where the heat catches the fat, the little blackened edges that crackle when you cut into them.

Roasted chicken. Golden skin. Crisp enough to make a little crack beneath your knife. Juice running onto the cutting board. That smell of garlic, herbs, pepper, and rendered fat filling the kitchen.

Fried chicken. Well… fried chicken doesn’t need an introduction. That golden, craggy crust. The sound it makes when you bite into it. Crunch. Then that little pause. That moment when you realize the inside is still steaming.

Chicken tacos. Chicken enchiladas. Chicken soup. Chicken grilled over charcoal until the smoke gets into everything.

Chicken understands me.

Chicken doesn’t ask questions.

Chicken is just… there.

And then there’s pork.

Pork and I have a complicated relationship. I like pork. I really do. But I’m not going to lie to you. Pork knows we’re not exclusive. Pork understands the arrangement. Pork doesn’t expect too much.

Except… there are exceptions.

There is bacon. Bacon doesn’t count. Bacon is not really pork. Bacon is what happens when pork decides to stop pretending it has morals.

Bacon enters a room and immediately changes the conversation. That smell. That ridiculous smell. The sizzling. The little curls of fat turning golden in the pan. That first bite when it’s crisp enough to shatter but still has just enough chew to remind you that you’re eating something profoundly unnecessary.

Bacon isn’t a side dish. Bacon is a decision.

And then… chicharrones.

Oh, God, Chicharrones.

This is where my relationship with pork completely falls apart. Because I don’t like chicharrones.

I love chicharrones.

There is a difference.

A good chicharrón has a sound. You know the sound. That first crack when your teeth hit the crisp skin. Then the crunch. Then the richness. The salt. That glorious, completely irresponsible combination of textures that makes every nutritional guideline you’ve ever heard quietly leave the room.

Chicharrones don’t care about my health. Chicharrones don’t care about my cholesterol. Chicharrones don’t care about tomorrow.

Chicharrones are dangerous… And they know it.

But beef… Beef is different.

I love beef. I mean… I really love beef.

Beef thinks we’re exclusive. And honestly, I don’t blame it. We’ve been through a lot together.

A beautifully marbled ribeye hitting a screaming-hot grill. That first sizzle. The smell of the fat rendering into the fire. Smoke rising. Edges crisping. The surface developing that dark, caramelized crust that makes you stare at it for a moment before cutting into it because you know what you’re about to experience.

Then the knife goes in. Tender. Juicy. Pink in the middle. A little salt. Maybe some cracked pepper.

And suddenly you’re not eating dinner.; you’re having an experience.

Carne asada. Slow-cooked beef. Birria. Barbacoa. A hamburger cooked over charcoal with the edges just a little crispy.

Beef and I have history.

Beef has been there for me.

Beef has earned my trust.

Beef thinks we’re committed.

And that’s the problem, because beef can never find out about chicken.

EVER.

Because I love chicken too. And chicken is different.

Chicken doesn’t make demands. Chicken doesn’t ask where I’ve been. Chicken doesn’t interrogate me when I come home smelling like charcoal. Chicken doesn’t look at me and say, So… where were you last night?

Chicken just smiles. Well… I assume chicken smiles. I’ve never actually looked closely.

Vegetables don’t care about any of this. Vegetables are emotionally stable. Vegetables have their own lives. Fruit is even more detached. Fruit doesn’t want drama. Pork knows where it stands. Bacon knows exactly what it is.

Chicharrones…

Chicharrones are sleeping with everybody.

Chicharrones have no loyalty.

And then… There’s coffee.

Coffee is different.

Coffee isn’t food. Coffee is family.

Coffee is the first thing I think about in the morning. Before my feet touch the floor. Before I know what day it is. Before I remember what I’m supposed to be doing.

Coffee.

That first smell. Dark. Warm. Bitter. Almost smoky. The steam rising from the cup. The little curl of heat against your face when you bring it close. That first sip when it’s hot enough to make you pause.

Bitter at first.

Then rich.

Then somehow sweet.

Coffee doesn’t need sugar. 

Coffee doesn’t need cream.

Coffee just needs me… And I’ve needed coffee for a very long time.

Coffee has been there for me when vegetables weren’t. Coffee has been there when chicken wasn’t. Coffee has been there when beef was busy pretending it wasn’t jealous. Coffee has never judged me.

Never.

Coffee has never asked why I was eating chicken after promising beef I was done.

Coffee knows everything.

EVERYTHING.

Coffee has heard things beef will never hear. Coffee has seen things chicken will never see. Coffee has been there at two in the morning when I’m standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open, staring into the cold light, trying to determine whether I’m actually hungry, or just bored.

Coffee knows the truth, And coffee never tells.

That’s why coffee and I have an understanding. I don’t ask questions. Coffee doesn’t ask questions. 

I pour. 

Coffee appears.

We move on with our day.

It’s a beautiful relationship. Stable. Reliable. Long-term. No drama. No jealousy. No accusations.

Just me and coffee.

Every morning.

Until death do us part.

So yes. I have a complicated relationship with food. I love vegetables. I love fruit. I love chicken. I love beef. I tolerate pork. I have an unhealthy emotional attachment to bacon. I would sell my soul for chicharrones.

And coffee… Coffee is the one I married.

So if beef ever asks where I was last night, I was with chicken.

If chicken asks where I was this morning, I was with coffee.

If pork asks why I haven’t called… Tell pork I’m busy.

If bacon calls, I’ll answer.

Obviously.

And if chicharrones show up at my house, I’m not responsible for what happens next.

But if coffee asks where I’ve been all day…

Well…

Coffee already knows.

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