Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (or How a Great Plate of Food Can Change Your Outlook)

Yesterday, I was reminded of just how transformative a delicious meal can be. Despite the promise of an extraordinary evening attending a press dinner, the early part of the day was nothing to write home about. Mix one part headache, one part tummy ache and two parts of sulky moodiness, shake well and pour. My glass was full but it wasn’t the flavor that I wanted to savor. Something had to give.

So I treated myself to lunch. Generally, this type of unabashed self-indulgence would not be enough to induce me to kick up my heels like Gene Kelly (yes, I’m dating myself . . .), but there’s just something about food that can turn things around. And that’s exactly what a plate of pollo caribeño con salsa curry did for me.

I’ve been reduced to gluttonous episodes and frenzied food-fests at Brasitas on numerous occasions prior to this, and it has always—I repeat, always—been a highlight of my day. But on this particular day, I felt like Ann Margaret and was about to break out in a 1950’s song and dance routine on the streets of Stamford.

“How can this be?” you ask yourself. Either that or you’re silently wondering “What is wrong with this woman?” I can answer both questions in one fell swoop: Like chocolate, I believe food has mood-enhancing properties. People tend to experience bouts of happiness when their taste buds are tantalized, and I am a happy statistic in that majority. While I can’t offer any medically sound explanation for this phenomenon, I have unshakeable faith in it . . . wholeheartedly.

While it may sound like a dangerous proposition to make, especially given the staggering number of Americans who are overweight (but not the entire country, of course), a “happy meal” can be a ‘cure’ for what ails you. (I wonder if that’s what McDonald’s had in mind all those years ago when they turned the world of fast food on its ear with their own version of a Happy Meal?) In no way, shape or form do I advocate food as medicine. What I am saying, however, is that, on occasion, sometimes food is the best remedy to placate my altered state of mental unrest.

Do I intentionally turn to food for comfort? No, I’m not one of those eaters (and I say this with all due respect to those who are emotional eaters and, oftentimes, cannot control the nagging impulse to eat in times of stress, despair, etc.). I eat for the enticing flavors that fill my mouth; I eat because the aroma of food can be a seductive invitation; I eat to fill my body with the nutrients it needs to maintain my existence; I eat because food is oh so good.

It goes without saying that if you’re in a perpetually crappy mood every waking day of your life, this whole “turn to food” concept may not be the right one for you. You don’t want to find yourself in a years’ time splayed out on a couch and Dr. Phil’s staring at you with those beady eyes, asking “What made ya do it? What made ya eat yourself silly like this and balloon to 500 pounds?”

I don’t want that person to be me.

What I do want, however, is to work my way through this crazy thing called life with the assurance that food will always be a part of it. I never, ever want to abuse food, but I do want to enjoy it. And when the situation presents itself once again where I’m in a funk brought on by nothing in particular, I might decide to suit up and go for an invigorating run. Or perhaps I’ll pick up a good book and feed my hungry brain. Or maybe, just maybe, as scary as it sounds to me, I’ll stop being lazy and finally clean out my closet.

There is another option, though. Will I choose it? I really don’t know. But perhaps, like yesterday, it won’t be a matter of making a conscious decision. Maybe it will just . . . simply . . . happen. After all, a woman’s gotta eat.