Braced for Forty-Five

Nothing kills the momentum of food writing like having a row of cogs and staples strapped to your teeth — every grain of rice, fleck of parsley and wad of chewed bread jammed into their inner trappings. Having to strategically dice a slice of pizza small enough to insert into the depths of your molars. To attempt to grind food fine enough to swallow, but since you can’t clamp down far enough to really get after it, being forced to swallow half-eaten bites hoping for the best.

Thank God ice cream is easy to consume, unless it's the chunky variety — which, inevitably, it would be, since that is my favorite. In that case, in lieu of chicken and rice bits, it's chocolate chip nut toffee tar cemented so deep that the only way to chisel it out is to go in with two hands and that pipe cleaner of a toothpick I now carry in my wallet to get into all the nooks and crannies of the barbed wire fence that is now my mouth.

I used to love a good steak, a drippy Italian sub on sourdough, a chicken wing. Now, soup is my vice du jour, lighting up my dopamine signals with its broths, smooth velvety textures and overcooked vegetables that won’t put me in a chokehold if I swallow them whole. Is it a coincidence I haven’t written a food story since I got braces? Would it even be fair to write a review in the state I’m in? Buddy’s Rib Shack and Hot Pete’s House of Wings wouldn’t stand a chance. Or is it that I’m coming up on 45 and thinking more about cholesterol and bone density than where to find the best dumpling? It’s a tricky balance: stay on top of who cooks what best without going into cardiac arrest.

In my lifetime, I’ve seen Los Angeles Times food critic Jonathan Gold and my chef mentor Ken — both lovers of food in excess — die in their 50s of pancreatic cancer. Pete Wells left his position as New York Times restaurant critic after his doctor presented him with a laundry list of possible future health concerns, including prediabetes, fatty liver disease and metabolic syndrome. Julie Powell, creator of the hit blog “Julie and Julia,” died at 49 of cardiac arrest, which may or may not have been from eating an unhealthy diet.

I’ve always worked to balance the excesses a food writer must participate in to do their job well. I cook from scratch at home with whole ingredients, I practice yoga 4-6 times a week, I’ve cut my alcohol intake dramatically and I walk as much as possible. Still, I have high cholesterol – a recurring theme in my annual check ups the past three years.

It’s very possible my cholesterol issue is genetic, or because every now and then I enjoy crushing a pint of ice cream in one sitting. It may be a casualty of being constantly surrounded by expertly crafted pastries. Regardless, this is my new normal, along with achy joints, afternoon fatigue and a slowly waning sex drive (to my 34-year-old boyfriend’s dismay). Don’t get me wrong, overall I feel good and have no desire to slow down. I’m simply noting the changes as I creep into my perimenopausal-midlife-height-of-my-career era with gusto.

I don’t know the secret to aging gracefully, although the findings of centenarians living in Blue Zones seem probable enough to me — stay active, move often, keep a strong social network, have a purpose, eat whole foods, drink mostly water (along with coffee, tea and a touch of red wine) and eat sugar sparingly (fuck). That’s not to say that nutrition science isn’t fledgeling and flawed, it is. So I don’t take anything as gospel.

My chef mentor Ken used to joke that he had one foot in a grave, one foot on a banana peel. I’m nowhere near that, but I am closer to understanding the feeling of getting older. And it’s about as comfortable as my new grill.