As some of you know, last fall Ferrett and I did an experiment wherein we ate Soylent–and only Soylent–for a week. The first few days were hell, but by the end of it I kind of wanted to go on just eating Soylent. So we started a subscription by which a month’s worth of the stuff would be sent to us every four weeks.
This was one of those experiments in which we mostly learned how much we suck. Because of course for the couple weeks we had to wait for the Soylent to arrive, we went back to eating real food. So when it came we were no longer inured, and our taste buds screamed, “What the hell are you doing?!!”
We have only succeeded in soylent-only days a couple times, none of them consecutively.
Our next thought was, well we will eat soylent for breakfast and lunch, and regular food for dinner. Which might have worked if we didn’t fall upon dinner like ravening wolves who hadn’t eaten all day. And if in the midst of all this we were actually going to the grocery store and shopping.
Instead, we would get to 6pm, both be famished, and order something out. On some days, we might have the insight to have ground turkey in the house and make turkey burgers. But mostly it was last-minute audibles involving the collection of takeaway menus in one of the junk drawers.
A week ago I stopped at the grocery store for milk and peanut butter, and standing in the produce aisle I had something of a panic attack: I honestly couldn’t think of things to do with the abundance of food before me. Couldn’t think of recipes, couldn’t look at a vegetable and get inspired to put something together. Dismayed, I fled to the fluorescent comfort of the dairy section, picked up the two things I’d come for, and checked out. But the experience left me unsettled. I’ve always been kind of a jazz cook: show me ingredients and I come up with possibilities. Where had that gone?
Wednesday afternoon–woodworking Wednesdays for Ferrett and our friend Eric–I was driving home from a client meeting and wondering where we’d get dinner. And a wave of disgusted nausea rolled over me. I texted Ferrett to tell him that I could not look another takeout dinner in the face. I was heartily, completely, sick of it. So I was going to the grocery store, and making white chicken chili for dinner. I knew that wasn’t one of his favorites, but it was something for which I knew all the ingredients and could shop efficiently.
Or so I thought. I got about 3/4 of the way through cooking and realized the four ingredients I’d missed. Slightly daunted, but unwilling to change plans, I hopped in the car and ran back to the grocery store. Erin came over for dinner and she and I finished up the chili together.
Ferrett didn’t like it. I don’t think Eric cared that much for it. Then again, they got the pepperless, low spice version, because Ferrett can’t stand peppers and Eric has no tolerance for any kind of heat. There’s was more of a chicken soup than an actual chili. Erin and I, on the other hand, loved ours, and she took home over half of the leftovers.
I’m not quite sure how to go forward. We still have four cases of soylent, and I know for a fact that the week we actually did eat it I felt healthier. But I also know that we’ve made at least three commitments to soylent-only days and have broken every one. I’m bad at straddling these two worlds, and not sure how to proceed. I’ve got no wise words or insights on which to end this, just a shrug and a promise to follow up as things progress.