No matter the season, I'm always hungry . . .

Among my many obsessions, food and eating are nearly always close to the top of the list. There’s so much loveliness, so much wealth, so much potential in every bowl, leaf and cinnamon stick. And damned if there isn’t deliciousness galore.

I’m neither an expert chef nor foodie of the more serious and scientific sort, not historian or cultural anthropologist enough to delve into the deeper magic of the edible world. What I do have is tastebuds and cravings galore and a massive amount of respect for and joy in the simple and subtle pleasures of food, whether at the table or under the tree. It’s sometimes fun to experience the glorious and self-consciously over-the-top flights of culinary fancy concocted as tasting menus and elaborate kingly dishes. But truthfully, the potent magnetism of the whole event of eating or cooking itself is shaped so much by the company and the environment and the context of the moment that far less sophisticated fare is often far preferable and more soul-grabbing. Gold-leafed croquembouche or perfect Seckel pear or tuna salad on sourdough, it doesn’t matter. If the company and the ambiance are right, it’s as good as dining in the halls of the gods.

Perfectly ripe for the moment

It’s why hospitality is a central tenet, even the central tenet, in so many cultures as well. To offer food and drink to a friend is a powerful gift. To offer them to a stranger is diplomacy and compassion, is the hopeful and gracious imperative of beings that want to bring others in the world into deeper community. To offer sustenance to an enemy is to be divinely brave and willing to risk everything for the sake of peace and kindness.

And to dine in peace, dine on sweet and delicious, savory and exquisite, marvelous and welcome meals of any kind–that’s a wonder not to be taken lightly. I’m quite happy to frolic in food without constantly wallowing in worship of it, but at bottom I still feel a certain frisson of that special quality with every crumb, every drop.

How to eat right isn't always obvious . . .

I’m also learning, as I get older, what I can and can’t eat in good health. Wheat seems to be, if not Nemesis, then at least not a good friend to my innards, and it’s obvious I should learn to love sugary stuff less enthusiastically than I have always done. So I’m working on the whole idea of how to veer away from those ruthless treats that tend to torture me without becoming too cantankerous about what I see as their loss. Mainly, I suppose, finding friendly substitutions to fill in any created blanks and to distract me from anything I might otherwise mourn as loss.

Given that there are so few things I don’t like to eat or drink, that shouldn’t be too awfully tough to do. As long as I don’t find my diet devolving for any reason to 100% blueberries and, oh boy, organ meats. I did say there’s little I dislike in gustatory terms, but I’ll just put those out there. Yes, I’m that person. But I’ve been known to eat both when the occasion required it, because the company and the occasion and what they mean will always still trump the little old tastebuds. And that’s what good taste really means to me.