Originally posted 2^nd October 2012

How the hell can I define my diet?

Generally-speaking, my food intake could be described as varied at best and crunchingly suicidal at worst.  I am delighted to admit that I live to eat, not eat to live – keeping the worst off my waistline with regular walks and the sweatlodge that is the Central Line.  Admittedly, a tall stature and affinity for vertically-striped clothing helps a little too.

I am not a picky eater (although one recent experience seems to suggest that I could never go out with a vegetarian).  I am however just as happy eating a disgusting slab of ribs as I am in a resplendent restaurant; then again, I am disturbingly comfortable with bagging a Tesco’s sandwich, their scrum-diddly-umptious salt and vinegar crisps and a pack of Rowntree’s Randoms after a hard day’s Human Resourcing.

Seriously.  If you have not yet tried Randoms then stop reading this shit and get yourself to the nearest offie.  In a word?  Magnificence.

Sorry, where was I?  Anyway, yes – the definition of an indefinable diet.  Well, this completely stumped me as well until the latest New Yorker slipped through the letterbox.  Trust my favourite magazine to put an end to the conundrum when they introduced three new Vores – which one(s) do you associate yourself with?

Personally I see a little of myself reflected in all three – I am always a little reliant on the detritus in my fridge (usually grapes, Tonic Water and marmalade; and if anyone can explain how to conjure that into a meal then I’ll be forever indebted).  In good measure, I am always the painfully polite one at dinner parties (although five years in five stars is slowly corroding my once interminable fuzziness!).

For me though, food will be forever dictated by mood.  I.e, rough days call for Randoms.  An inherent stubbornness (Mum says it is because I am a Forester) means that when it comes to eating, I have a one-track mind and will get that one idea in my head – and that has to be it.  Next week, my office and I will venture to the much-hyped Bubbledogs– the result of my incessant begging on the phone for a reservation.  Four-week wait on a table?  Frikkin’ fine.  And who could not ever be in the mood for hot dogs and champagne?  Apart from non-pork-eaters and non-drinkers, clearly.  Moods are also contagious – a good night out always leads to a good meal (and often vice versa), but to have this happen takes the presence of good company; therein lies the mortar.

So – the people dictate the mood – and the mood dictates the food.  Awesome.  On that piece of lyrical, miracle madness I’m off to bed, proud to wake up tomorrow morning as a bonafide Moodavore.

And yes, in the past I have eaten just a bowl of chips and dip for tea.  And I’d do it again.