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Temples

I treat my body like a temple
You treat yours like a tent
~Jimmy Buffett, Fruitcakes

If one’s body really is a temple, what exactly should be on the altar? While the notion of a hedonistic cult clammoring for every imaginable indulgence may be the first thing that springs, almost unbidden, into many of our minds, we secretly know that our own personal commitment to such a program would likely fall desperately short. After the initial ecstatic plunge into chocolate, wine, cream, or whatever our culinary fantasy might be, we would eventually wash up bloated and insensate on the shores of our own indulgence. It’s enough to make one seriously consider the virtues of a more ascetic regime.

I’ve certainly woken up the day after an evening at a Rodizio restaurant with the sensation of having a meat-hangover, the shuddering knowledge of how much protein I had consumed the night before and the temporary avowal of pure and vegetarian – maybe even vegan – food for at least the rest of the day while part of my mind is also trying desperately to think about anything but food. There is the temptation not to eat at all, of course, a sort of penitential fasting that we occasionally accept as a self-imposed punishment for the conscious abuse of our bodies, but eventually we must eat once again.

We’ve all overdone it. Think Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner – almost every family has one legendary over-eater who nearly inspires austerity in those around them. While my family has generally never slid farther down that track than a loosening of the belt and modest post-prandial torpor, I have witnessed the almost unspeakable horror, at a dinner where one of the other guests decided that she would be more comfortable eating her holiday dinner lying prone on the floor, one hand constantly lifted to push the family dog away from her plate. It represented a powerful lesson against gluttony in the form of an indelible mental image. If I were to choose between a life of self-denial or needing to lie on the floor to eat dinner, I would reluctantly become a fat-free vegan with a lingering lifetime’s regret.

Fortunately, I have not had to choose. Most of us, people who eat moderately well most of the time, can afford a little excessiveness now and then – and there is no joy like a carefully chosen pure indulgence – and if we are then reminded by our bodies that a little spring cleaning is in order, well, that is another sort of pleasure. It is not the same unfettered ecstacy as extravagance, but rather a more craftsman-like sense of discipline in doing exactly what we know needs to be done.

I am highly conscious about what I eat, most of the time. I want my indulgent choices to count, to be something that I can savour, if not downright revel in, when they happen. The very best way for me to do that, I’ve discovered, is for my digestion to be in tiptop condition. This requires a steadfast approach to healthy eating and regular exercise, the prospect at which any hedonist would shake her head with dismay. I have found, however, that nothing quite sharpens my appreciation for a culinary delicacy than the knowledge that I am stepping outside my usual routine or regime. If I recklessly pander to every gustatory whim, I get treat-fatigue. I get spoiled. I get grumpy and restless and hard to please. I get to the point where I can be eating a favourite dish, and be bored by it, bored by eating in general, bored by life. Such are the symptoms of excess, and thus the signal to my brain that the temple is falling into disrepair.

Depending entirely on how long I have been frolicking in the butter, I may have varying amounts of work to do to hoist myself out of the doldrums. Exercise is always good, because it makes us feel as though we are doing something incredibly proactive to improve or maintain our health. The endorphins don’t hurt, either. For food, I rely on the mantra of “simple is best” and enforce it vigorously. Fruit. Broth-based soups. Chilled soba noodles. The simplest of bean-and-rice dishes, and mountains of steamed or roasted vegetables garnished sparingly with a restrained flick of salt or tiniest drizzle of lemon juice. Brightly coloured foods. Herbal tea, nothing fancy or “cleansing” by design, just good, straight-forward clean-tasting. Lots of water. These are the ways in which I get my temple in order. There is no privation, here. The food is good, but not particularly stirring to my cook’s soul. These are all foods that I enjoy anyway but choosing them, without any additional frippery and when I am weary with luxury, puts me back on a path of discovery.

Inevitably, I will stray, you see. After a day or two, I will have unthinkingly sprinkled sultry Indian herbs and spices over a dish of vegetables, and come alive as the flavours hit my palate. I will find myself scrounging up the last of the balsamic vinegar from the cupboard, to brighten a chopped vegetable salad. Before long, I am straining eagerly through cookbooks and poring over online recipes, making notes and printing copies and feeling all fired up about eating, about cooking, about exploring the things that my previously jaded palate could not appreciate in any meaningful way.

I’ve done both, really. I’ve treated my body like a temple, I’ve treated it like a tent. Occasionally, I’ve had to treat it like a faulty car that needs regular trips to the mechanic. While tent-style living can be an awful lot of fun, it does not endure. I may not be a showy cathedral for the ages, but even a little roadside shrine can last for years, under the right conditions.  At least, I hope so.
 

May 2006