Comfort the Discomforted

Sunday, for lunch, I opened a bag of ruffled potato chips and drug a few through some sour cream as a side dish for my slaw dogs. (Yes, hot dogs and chips. I was wallowing in that five percent of the time that I ignore trying to eat healthy. It keeps me sane.) After the first bite of the chip and dip I stopped and marveled at how good it made me feel. It was a palpable wash of gloriousness rushing through my body. (Hyperbole? Not by a million miles!) I had just experienced a moment that was brought to me by ingesting “comfort food.” In fact, eating the hot dog (or two) with sweet slaw and mustard a few minutes later rocketed me to such heights of feel goodness that I had to take a nap before the NFL playoff games started. (Note to self: ingesting two comfort foods in one sitting should be avoided. Or not. Who am I to judge?)

What I found the most interesting about my comfort food “moment” was that my wife did not share the same feelings about the food. Sure, she liked and enjoyed the slaw dog, but she was nowhere near my red-lined excitement. I concluded from this in-depth experiment that we all have our own comfort foods, each chemically lined up to cause our unique DNA (and taste buds) to release a full body pleasantness. My wife could not readily name her comfort foods (once I told her that Pinot Noir was not a food group) but I have seen her eyes glaze over while working on a stack of pancakes with peanut butter. And no syrup. (Ugh.) I have no doubt that there is a correlation between the amount of grease and fat contained in a food and it’s status on the comfort food pyramid. Hmmm... Do people that eat fried food all the time find comfort in a granola bar or a rice cake? I really hope not. That would be sad and I can take no comfort in that.