My Dad Eats the Same Thing Every Day
10:30 A.M. Iced coffee with fat-free half-and-half in a Tervis tumbler
12:30 P.M. Ham and Swiss sandwich on store-brand sourdough bread with the crusts cut off
6:00 P.M. Turkey meatloaf cut into tiny pieces over a bed of white rice, torched in the microwave for 5 minutes and doused in pre-grated parmesan cheese and black pepper
10:00 P.M. Popcorn time. 1 bag of Orville Redenbacher’s light butter popcorn
11:30 P.M. Sugar-free banana bread
This is my dad’s feeding schedule day in and day out. He works 10-hour shifts from home as a network engineer, and follows a strict diet of the foods listed above—not necessarily because he needs to, although his picky palate, along with his lack of time and cooking ability, already narrow down his options severely. Still … the same thing, every single day?
I used to pity my dad, and other people like him: the picky eaters, the chicken nugget kids. I thought they were missing out on something they couldn’t even begin to comprehend: a world of tastes and textures they'd surely love if they just gave them a chance. The feeling somehow reminded me of sleepaway camp, and how sorry I felt for the high school friends who never went; they had no idea what deep spiritual connections they were missing. I pitied picky eaters for what they did not know—at least until recently.
I moved to Brooklyn about a month ago with no job to speak of. I spent the first 2 weeks using the move to justify my joblessness. More recent weeks have been spent waffling between sparse networking/”career” job applications, and lazily applying to server jobs on Indeed. Consequently, the last few days have been dedicated to panic. My entire sense of self right now is based around the fact that I have none. I am completely lost, devoid of routine. As this fun, flirty new version of myself, I can finally understand the appeal of eating the same meals every day (or, at least, I’ve started to get it). In the past, I always viewed food as providing a space for exploration and self-expression; for others, though, the appeal lies in the sanctity of structure. You can’t control the random cosmic fuckery of the universe, but you can control what you eat.
This is true for me, too, in a sense. Controlling what I eat is a major part of my daily life. I constantly pay attention to what I’m craving, and try to craft the perfect recipe to satisfy that (while using the ingredients that are already in my fridge). But there’s so much uncertainty in trying something new, even if it’s just one meal. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been left disappointed or unsatisfied by something I made, crying over a bowl of rigatoni swimming in some disgusting pasta sauce I blended from white beans. Maybe some people just can’t afford a loss like that in their day. Ham and Swiss will always be good, so why ruin a good thing?
Of course, to me, the answer to that question is obvious: to avoid getting stuck in a palate prison of your own design, consuming food solely for nutrients until somebody puts you on meal parole. It’s not the life I would want. But I can see the comfort in it for some people.
My dad, who has always been on the side of “we consume food solely for nutrients,” is an avid user of the phrase, “it’s just a meal.” “It’s just a meal.” I can’t count the number of times those words have comforted me when I’m stuck indecisively poring over menus, already sure that I wouldn’t choose the right thing. For me, every meal is an opportunity to experience something new, to experience something amazing—and god help me if my own poor judgment leads me to choose something that isn’t spectacular.
But “it’s just a meal” helps take the pressure off. It removes the power from the food and places it in the hands (or mouth) of the one consuming the food. At the same time, I sometimes wonder if it’s the best catch phrase for a guy whose relationship with food is important to him. Because it’s not just a meal for him; it’s a routine, and one that is not to be fucked with. He likes things the way he likes them, and he likes them that way for a reason. Food reflects a layer of his identity, one characterized by meticulousness and specificity. Much like how for me, it reflects the part of myself that enjoys learning and creating. His relationship to food is different from mine, but I’m not sure it’s any less important (although he may beg to differ). Food gives his day structure, the illusion of predictability in a chaotic world. Considering this, it’s not “just a meal;” it’s a lifestyle.
As someone who has recently woken up every day without a plan, in an apartment I don’t yet have a job to pay for, I can understand the appeal of that! I have found since I moved I’ve been following more recipes than usual. I find they provide assurance during a time when I’m so uncertain about everything else. I’m living through a period where I can’t afford to take a loss at dinner. Meal time is precious, and right now, it’s safe, it’s predictable.
As a young woman in my early 20s making observations about the dietary habits of a man in his mid 60s, it’s difficult for me to imagine the circumstances that bring someone to be so formulaic about what they eat. But right now, when every day feels like a structureless slog of searching for work and building my spice cabinet, I can understand my father a bit more. The sentiment behind his daily turkey meatloaf dinner rings loud and clear: You may not like every day, but at least you can like what you eat every day.
Turkey meatloaf, chopped up, pre microwave scorch
