When I came to NYU, I planned to study political journalism of the Muslim Middle East; I wanted to be a war correspondent. But soon enough I realized that another area of study brought me much more pleasure than learning Arabic ever would: food writing. I loved to eat, and I loved to write, and I loved to eat and then write about it. Logically, I thought: What better career is there for me?
I changed my classes, but I still wrestled with the decision. I had friends who were disappointed in me, friends who thought I might be able to somehow effect more change as an imbed in Iraq. Perhaps they were right that I could have had a strong impact if I continued with my war studies. Maybe I could have told the stories of children orphaned by battle, an example I recall using in my admissions essay.
But I argue that there is something to be said for loving — and writing about — food. Food unites us all, more so than almost any other aspect of our lives. ("Everyone Poops," as the book declares, but everyone must eat first.) And food almost universally can be eaten with joy, can be celebrated, can bring mankind great pleasure.
In January, a man wrote to food writer Ruth Reichl to ask her how she could, in good conscience, continue to write about something as silly as food while so many were suffering in Haiti. I cannot imagine a better answer than Reichl's reply, which she penned on her blog: "But in times of trouble — especially in times of trouble — it is important to celebrate life. We need to remind ourselves — and others — that it is good to be alive. If only as a promise that better times are coming."
To use a cliche: I'd drink to that.
