Confessions of a Food Snob

Hello, my name is Stephanie, and I am a Food Snob.

I'll try to be as honest as possible in divulging my secret, but, let's face it, hidden secrets like to stay hidden. In coming to the realization that I am indeed a food snob, I had my very own Damascus Road revelation. My snobbery itself, however, was actually slow in its development.

I remember well my early beginnings...my own foolishness in buying cooking wine to use in a recipe; of not knowing a legume from a leek; and of believing the only lettuce was iceberg lettuce. Only yesterday I would have laughed at my fumbling start into the culinary world. I did not have a "natural" talent, but I had a desire! I wanted to succeed! I studied cookbooks and recipes. I mastered the techniques of the greats: Julia, Emeril, Bobby and Wolfgang. Ah, yes, I can recall the first time I felt disdain for another. The purposeful perusal of a fellow shopper's cart and my haughtily raised brow at her "hamburger helper" boxes and frozen corn dog containers. Did she recognize, as I did, her lowly estate and my obvious superior love of family in serving only fresh fruits and vegetables, organic eggs, and whole grain pasta? Mark well my estate, my friends, notice that slippery spot on which I stood. I would have done well at this point to beat my breast and cry, "God, be merciful to me a food snob!" But, sadly, I did not.

Month after month and year after year, I gloried in my ascension up the hierarchy of home cookery. I reveled in my family's praise - surely, this is what was meant in Proverbs 31: "Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: 'Many daughters have cooked well, but you surpass them all.'"

I could continue to tell my story as I digressed in this way, but I must bring my tale to today. The day I saw what I had become.

It started as any other day with projects to finish and meals to cook. I drove to my favorite local market and began to feel the flush in my cheek and the excitement in my breast as I sauntered through the artfully arranged vegetables and the enticing meats and fishes. "What," I asked myself, "could I prepare today that would bring the adoration I have come to expect from my family? Roasted Shrimp with homemade cocktail sauce? Chicken Piccata with a Lemon Vinaigrette Dressed Salad? Oh, the possibilities! But, wait! Why not call my dearly beloved children and allow them to request a family favorite?" So, I did just that. I wondered what they would choose out of all the many wonderful meals I had made. Ham, Apple, and Gruyerre Paninis? Homemade macaroni and cheese begun with a creamy bechamel sauce and three cheeses? Perhaps a Roasted tomato soup with homemade croutons? I smugly smiled to myself as I waited for them to answer.

My firstborn son picked up the phone and I made my proposal. I could hear the excited, muffled discussion between him and his siblings as they made their decision. (Has any woman had more precious children?) Little did I know that his answer would pierce this mother's heart.

I wonder now if the happy shoppers around me knew what they were witnessing? Did they recognize the destruction that was happening before them? Honestly, I just don't know. I can only tell you of the sorrow that swept through me as I finally recognized what I had become. Have eleven little words ever had such an impact in all the time since creation? -- "Mom, we want the macaroni and cheese in the blue box." At first, I stood with a look of shock on my face. Then I began to slowly wander through the store questioning my own failure in raising these children of my husband's loins. "What more could I have done?!?" I wondered. Well, sure, I loved the stuff as a child, but didn't they understand the sacrifice I was making for them? The grating, the chopping, the julienne-ing, the basting, the braising, the damned sautee-ing?!?

I numbly made my way aisle by aisle searching for the accursed blue box. I mumbled a hasty "no" when the grocer asked if I needed help finding anything. I just wasn't ready to share my shame with the world. Sure, things like that are ok for some people, but not me, no, no, no, not me! I turned the corner and there it was. I hastily grabbed the four boxes that would be necessary to feed the obviously immature palates of my large family and returned to my cart.

Now, what I did next I am not proud of, but I must declare the truth if there is ever to be freedom. I HID those boxes under the green leaf lettuce I had previously placed in my basket. Like an addict I covered my shame from the reproachful eyes of others like me.

I continued to the front of the store as I questioned the sense of my last action. Who was this woman I had become?!? I mechanically went through the steps of checking out as the realization hit me. I had become a food snob! Me, who had loved vienna sausages and saltines as a child! Me, whose former favorite chef was famous for ravioli and spaghettios!

I made it home and proceeded to prepare my children's request. As I poured that little packet of orange powder onto those bleached noodles, I inhaled the fragrance of simpler times and simpler ways. Of childhood and laughter! I smiled to myself as I served those I hold dearest. Then I returned to the kitchen, raised my head high and devoured the rest of the mac and cheese straight from the pot.

My name is Stephanie and I am a recovering food snob.



Be sure to check in next time when Stephanie asks, "Are those fishsticks in your freezer?!?"