Food Porn

It’s time we talked about it openly, like, um, you know, adults.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, just know your lives are completely meaningless and unfulfilled and probably not worth living.  Ahem.  Food porn is when you eat something so good the act is certifiably debauched, illicit, and probably illegal in three states.  Combine the warmth of home cooking with the pride you feel from having cooked it with people you adore, and make it just the perfect amount of oozy and gooey and sweet…  good God.  Pies and cakes and casseroles, and flaky, buttery crusts… sometimes it’s just so… sometimes it just makes me…

Kidding!  Sorry, I’ll stop.

Anyway, my friends and I (and probably yours as well) tend to attribute the term ‘food porn’ to meals we make that look like this:

and this:

and definitely this:

But something occurred to me tonight.  Something that completely revolutionized the idea of food porn for me, maybe forever.

I know.  This is serious shit.

So, to begin, let’s be honest.  When the gang gets together and makes some delicious dish worthy of the name food porn, we usually look like this:

or, you know, like this:

Look at us!  So upstanding!  So fully-clothed!  These are faces you would reveal to your grandmother, most definitely.  Nothing illicit about this.

But now I have something to admit to you.

I work second shift, and usually I’m driving home around midnight.  Now, all day long I may frequent ‘localvore’ restaurants, yes.  I’m 92.4% vegeterian, okay?  And I worked on an organic farm.  That’s right, I did.  I may shop almost exclusively at the Willy St Co-Op and know every stall at the farmers’ market by heart, but that doesn’t keep me from stopping at McDonald’s for a quarter pounder with cheese, fries, and a coke… on a surprisingly regular basis.

Yes, I admit it.  Sometimes–I eat at McDonald’s.  Just McDonalds.  Not Wendy’s or Arby’s or Hardy’s–no.  Once every, I’d say two months or so, I just NEEDS ME A QUARTER POUNDER WITH CHEESE.  Bastards.  They’ve got me.  Right in the guts.

Every once in a while, all the willpower in the world is not enough to keep me from that salty, fatty, sugary goodness.  Some sort of primordeal instinct kicks in, and I long in the marrow of my bones for the juicy fat of the burger, artificially inseminated into the rear-end of a poor, tortured creature.  And then the sweetness of the syrupy soda, which holds the balls of my biological desire for sugar in a vice.  Hell, the oil on the fries probably comes from the baby fat of Malaysian orphans–but God-in-Heaven sometimes you just want salt.  And Malaysian baby fat!

I know.  It’s terrible.  It’s disgusting.  And I always regret doing it.  McDonalds never leaves me satisfied, and so I come back later looking for more.  If I don’t pace myself to one hooker every 60 days or so, I could become, well, addicted.  But for just a minute, it’s soooo good it’s almost worth it.  Not as good as the real thing, but still, so worth it.

Did I say hooker back there?  Whoops.  I meant burger.

What I’m saying, if you haven’t caught my obvious drift, is that moments like this, when I’m eating awful, immoral food alone in the dark, in my car, feeling dirty and guilty in that Catholic way… now that is food porn, yes?

And this, then, is the face of someone eating ‘food porn’–something positively pornographic.  Awww shit!

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~ by Rachael on February 9, 2011.

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