Food, a love story

When I was growing up my private shame was the armfuls of historical romance novels I checked out from the local library. My taste ran to novels set in Regency England, peopled with heroes and heroines who engaged in witty repartee whilst dancing waltzes or while meeting clandestinely in the conservatory.

The paperbacks were stuffed into a swiveling rack at the library, and I used to lurk near it, pretending to be looking at the serious literature on a nearby shelf when really I was squinting to read the titles of covers that featured dashing young bucks or demure damsels tricked out in the latest stare of fashion (and showing a fair bit of forbidden ankle for the ladies or a well-muscled thigh for the gentlemen).

Mostly, my 14-year-old heart beat in shameful anticipation of finding a sex scene buried on the 200th page, laughably tame in hindsight but suggestive enough to rivet me to the page. I still remember my desire to flee as the elderly volunteer painstakingly stamped the due dates on my books while I silently urged her to "hurry, hurry" before a person with Important Literature to check out lined up and saw my books with titles like "The Duke and the Governess" or "The Bluestocking Bride".

There are a ton of cliched tropes in this kind of formulaic literature. There is also quite a bit of anachronism. Many of the heroines in historic romance novels are budding feminists, firebrands of intellectual thought and progressive politics, fighting against a restrictive, narrow-minded, patriarchal society. These are women who often literally shed their corsets and tight lacings in order to ride bareback on horses or tramp across the fields. These are women who rebel.

At some point I noticed that the authors of these novels -- all modern women -- where also engaging in commentary on body issues. Specifically, I came to identify a trope I'll call the Hearty Eater.

Now, the Hearty Eater is a woman who -- unlike the boring, brainless society misses surrounding her -- digs into her meals of watercress sandwiches and kippers and teacakes with unusual gusto. Her intellectual passions are such that she is heedless of displaying gauche manners by taking a second helping of jellied chicken or cold tongue. So lost is she in the rigors of the table conversation that a bit of marzipan from the dessert tray may linger on her chin, tempting her lovesick swain. She might even -- egad -- forget herself enough to lick her fingers. She may even be daring enough to knock back some after-dinner port or Madeira.

The hero often comments on the beguiling nature of the heroine's appetite and on her alluring curves and plump face. He may bring her treats and sweetmeats to show his approval of the obvious pleasure she takes from food.

I've been thinking about this trope lately in reference to myself. Because I am a quintessentially Hearty Eater, 21st century style.

I dig into my food. I roll my eyes with appreciation. I may groan when something particularly yummy passes my taste buds. I ask for seconds. I have been known to rub my hands together in anticipation and dance in my chair when confronted with the prospect of a well-made meal. I soak up sauces and gravies with bread. I run my finger along the rims of bowls and plates to get at that last lovely bit of food. I drink beers and wines until a warm relaxation permeates my body and my head lolls back against the chair or couch. Good conversation makes this table experience all the more pleasurable.

Men I have eaten with seem to like a woman who digs into her food. Many have said so out loud. I find that men like to watch a woman eat. They like to encourage another helping or the indulgence in a sinful dessert.

It feels like a defiance of sorts, to be a person -- a woman, more to the point -- who publicly adores food. There is clearly a sensual association with having a strong appetite. For me, at least, I associate eating well with having a certain power over men.

Somehow eating this way makes me feel more intellectually powerful as well. Because by enjoying my food I'm not in company with one of those other vain, silly, shallow women who pick at what's on their plates. I am not one of them, those silly, deluded gooses. I associate enjoyment of food with a feeling of intellectual capability because, over time, the best meals I've had were the ones where the conversation flowed and ranged and pricked at all my senses so that I tingled with aliveness and a sense of heady power in the attractiveness of my own personality.

I'm at a place where I've realized that I equate a hearty appetite with being a woman of feminist, intellectual heft. A person who embraces life, not one who restricts it. A person who talks and eats and thinks and eats and eats some more.

I was having a conversation last night with a female professor about how humans are creatures of routine. How our patterns of thought are set early on and it takes sometimes seismic events to shake up our perspectives. We wake up, we eat our regular breakfast, we go to work, we come home and watch TV, take a shower and go to bed. We do these things because that's just the way things are done. That's the way life is lived.

I like my routine and recognize its value. But I often want to do things differently. One of my favorite words in Spanish is gustar because it is a flexible, encompassing word that can be used to indicate a whole host of pleasurable feelings: the pleasure of meeting someone new, the delight in a favorite activity, the classiness of something done in good taste, the flight of fancy that leads to an amusing, delectable encounter. The word also refers to flavor, to the physical sensation of taste.

I want to live life con gusto. I want to live the way I eat: not inside the bounds of what is strictly necessary for survival but instead curiously, ravenously, sensually.

I think this is why I resist so much the idea of changing my eating habits. I find the idea threatening to my whole concept of myself, of my personality. I'm that girl -- the Hearty Eater. The thrilling, slightly rebellious heroine of my own amusing, clever, sweetly sexy storyline. Take away that, and I'm just an empty dustcover.