“Jevan zala?  Kay khallas? ”
(Did you eat? What did you eat for dinner?)

Phone lines across the world are clogged with concerns of lovely people. In absence of real intimacy,  families and lovers resort to questionnaire of food intake and bowel movements. In absence of touch they want to ensure the mortal vessels of the their loved ones are well taken care of.

The questions are  not an exercise in inanity. They are expressions of love.

Idle chat at office lunch tables,  conversations with acquaintances…
Across the world, (perhaps the upper middle class world that is not currently being destroyed by wars and proxy wars) people are filling the space between burps and bites with conversations of food and restaurants.

Incessantly.

The virus of foodieitis is spreading faster than Ebola. Everybody see themselves as foodies. A virus that hollows out the brain of thoughts about anything but indulgent excesses. For the afflicted person, excess is desirable. excess is exciting. excess is a way of life.

Food doesn’t cure hunger; it affirms their identity; it renews their unnatural desire towards consumables. It a love affair gone too far, too weird.

and yet, because it suits the new economy, it’s the new virtue for the herd with low expectations. Consumption has become art. connoisseurs are the new pandits of this ritual of junk workship. It is narcissism projected inwards. (to the stomach.)

3 years ago, everybody wanted to be a photographer. Now everyone wants to be food porn maker. Food that looks out-of-this-world and very well might be, in all probability made from cardboard and motor oil.

Food that never satisfies, but yet that never ceases to be desirable.

Food that mothers warn about to their children.