I tend to have bursts of food addictions.

In high school, they coincided with attempts at anorexia, eating nothing but clam chowder for 3 weeks is a sure fire way to keep slender
(as well as develop scurvy. but that’s not our topic today).

There were the months of bagel dogs, the weeks of clam chowder, the 40 days of Betty Crocker twice baked potatoes, extended periods of frozen chicken potstickers with ponzu sauce, vegetable alphabet soup, mini-corn dogs, tuna salad on Triscuits, Hamburger Helper and miso soup.

Looking at the list, I note the high salt content in all of my craving everyday foods. Perhaps it is that I am a salt junkie, prowling the aisles for a stronger and more concentrated high. This week, the humble corn dog, next week I’m whoring myself out for boullion.

But I digress.

The saddest thing is that my food addiction has ruined all these delicious foods for me. Much like my friends who are unable to even consider a measly shot of Jagermeister or tequila because of a certain hangover in 1996, I’ve overdosed and can’t go back.

No more chowder.
No more Beef Stroganoff Hamburger Helper.
And most regretfully, no more chicken potstickers.

Lately, however, food addictions have leaned toward the embarrassingly urbane.

Fresh mozzarella.
Green Goddess dressing.
Manchego cheese.
Those lemon flavored Luna bars.
Grilled asiago and prosciutto.
Capers.

(I mean, really, who in the hell craves capers?)

Does it mean I’m snotty, now that I’ve turned my back on the four fingered glove and Mrs. Crocker?
Have I gotten too good for these foods?
Will I forget to call them in a time of need, turning now to my new, more sophisticated food friends?

Am I destined to a life of eating caviar like a long-haired, liberal Robin Leech?
Doth my garden grow only rare edible flowers?
What happens when I decide I’m too good for prosciutto?

Moving on up from a stack of white bread on a plate as the side dish to slivered almonds and asparagus.
Moving on up from a jam stained giant jar of Jif.
Moving on up from canned peaches for dessert.

It’s that guilt you feel about leaving home, saying, “No, that’s not good enough for me anymore, I want better.”

Or maybe that’s looking into it too far.