I have a fear of hunger. I know what you’re probably thinking: You’re a middle class American. Why would you ever worry about being hungry? And you have a very good point. There are people in this world and even in this country who have to worry about true starvation. I’m just worried about being hungry. I worry about being someplace looking at lovely warm food and knowing that I won’t be able to eat any of it.
I have food allergies. Not preferences, or fads. Real, true, gonna-wind-up-swollen food allergies. And a bad gall bladder. And a body that decides not to function if I don’t get all the vitamins and minerals I need in a day.
In my daily life, I’m fine. My husband, who is the designated cook in the family, as I have a tendency to cause fires, always makes nice things for me to eat. On road trips, we always have emergency food in case the rest stop has nothing I can eat.
But when I was on tour, it was hard. We didn’t go to grocery stores, and I was reduced to stealing as much fruit as I could from the hotel’s continental breakfast and hoping it would last me through the day. A few times it didn’t. And I curled up in my bus seat and quietly cried until I could find something to eat.
Last year in Alaska was worse. The nearest grocery store was three hours away, and unlike most of the population, I can’t survive on salmon and fried food.
I was recently talking to a potential employer, and the big hang up wasn’t pay or hours. It was food. Will she be able to feed me? Or will I have to stalk prey though the wilderness and try and kill it with my teeth and then rub sticks together to make fire? I would probably end up with worms or something horrible from not cooking the meat right.
I would say I would forage for edible fungus and berries, but let’s get real. I have a better chance of killing a wild animal with my teeth than not getting myself killed foraging in the woods.
So basically, I’m saying I’m doomed.
This is why I need food around me all the time. I start panicking and making horrible plans to find food. Like eating the neighbor’s yappy dog.
Or my arm.
I need a sandwich. And a turkey. Stat.