Food Cultures

I know why I am fat. Because I do not eat “culturally appropriate” food. That designation offered up by the United States Department of Defense. You’ve probably heard that those rail-thin prisoners captured in Afghanistan and now housed at Camp X-Ray, Guantanamo Bay are being fed “culturally appropriate” meals. (Shouldn’t they be feeding them those potentially lethal Presidential pretzels?) With my routine New Year’s resolution to lose weight once again proving impossible, the Pentagon’s classification of meals probably explains why I’m hauling around extra poundage. Digesting my weekly Pink’s hot dogs is just not in my genes. And I’m not in my jeans either thanks to carnitas rancheros at Ana’s, Bob’s Big Boy chili and Panda Garden’s steamed dumpling. Apparently an occasional garlic mashed potato mountain from Spago’s is not politically correct enough for this colon. I should be sticking to culturally relevant caloric intake. My people are from hardy Jewish peasant stock from Russia. I should be on a steady diet of borscht and kreplach soup. On the mitochondrial level my poor little stomach is not up to the task of breaking down food products not plowed in the fields of Siberia. As punishment my enzymes immediately synthesize all Sicilian pasta dishes into thigh hugging cellulite. (Shouldn’t it be celluheavy?) I know, I should be sticking to my roots – like potatoes and carrots. Look how healthy the Japanese are in Japan eating all that rice and sushi. And the French? They can suck down a monster-truck sized wheel of cheese and a vat of wine and have a cholesterol level equal to the number of people who saw The Majestic.

The problem is my people came to America and assimilated. Suddenly now at Passover matzoh and Cheez Whiz is a seasonal appetizer – like the unleavened bread made lickety-split, Cheez Whiz is just the latest manifestation of our cultural heritage. (Saving time by not having to cut the cheese) As if convenience was not enough, in America a land born of revolution, loads of us second generation immigrants rejected our traditional diet delights for the rebellious pleasures of inexplicable concoctions such as Jello and Spam and the Whopper. “Supersize” became our rallying cry. The cultural inappropriateness of “drive thru” was completely lost on me – a woman whose grandfather started his journey here in a horse drawn buggy.

According to my theory, if I’d only stuck to corned beef on rye, I’d be out of fat city. I was sharing my new conclusion about food with my younger sister. She’s marrying a nice Italian boy. She pointed out the problem with my theory. Her new favorite dish is now a blend of cultures – spaghetti and matzoh balls. Then a friend tossed in her favorite cross-cultural culinary taste treat –gefilte fish and maraschino cherry appetizer. This most ghastly gastronomic formulation is a product of a Polish-English marriage. Another friend born in China and married to a woman born in Germany shared their favorite dish – spaetzle (German noodles) in oyster sauce. It was as heavenly as my favorite Kosher Moo Shu chicken.

The Red Cross is checking up on the standards at Camp X-Ray. Perhaps the Talibs will get orange juice and cookies. Frankly, I think the Pentagon is doing our unwanted guests a grave disservice by limiting their meals to culturally appropriate food. I know my life is richer for my recent discovery of a crispy pile of french fries with wasabi sauce. A little taste of culinary democracy might go a long way to show that this melting pot is worth my weight in fluff-a-nutter on pita bread sandwiches.

by Stephanie Becker, Mass Distractions columnist for BestStuff.com