Relationships between food and mood

I often write about the joys of eating in this column–entertaining, a simple dinner with family, dining out, holidays and special occasions–the uplifting experience that combines pleasure and food. But what happens to the appetite when one feels down rather than up?

Many people I know tend to overeat or make poor dining choices when their worlds are turned upside down. For some, a simple glitch in an ordinary day can be enough of an excuse to hit the ice cream shop for a double scoop.

Whenever a longtime friend of mine had romantic troubles, she’d plant herself in bed with the television on and consume a pint of ice cream and a bag of potato chips. 

I know a man who suffered such heartbreak that he holed himself up and ate Domino’s pizza morning, noon and night for two months. He gained 25 pounds.

I, on the other hand, find such pleasure in food, that when I suffer a tough day, a rough patch, a heartbreak, food has no place for me. Ice cream is for when I’m happy. A complicated dish is what I cook when my writing is going well. Great Thai food is something to be enjoyed when I’m in love. When I’m down, I nearly always have dinner out with my son. That way I’ll at least eat something.

Recent heartbreak aside, I’m certainly not claiming my extreme is healthier than overeating in the face of sadness. I love clothes and don’t take pleasure when they’re hanging off my body. And a lack of interest in food is not good for my writing career. Don’t get me wrong, I still read about food, but my interest is more analytical, less passionate. I think depression affects my culinary joie de vivre.

But my recent challenges, and reflection upon those of my friends, has caused me to ponder the relationships between mood and food.

I know some people, who, as children, were urged to eat after a bad day at school or a sports team loss or a fight with a friend. I don’t recall that remedy growing up, but I do remember my parents taking me out to dinner, tempting me with lobster and steak when my cat died, when my boyfriends behaved badly, when I had a falling out with my best friend.

Maybe that’s one reason I dine out so often when I’m sad. I’m sure to find something on the menu to tempt me, thereby ensuring the consumption of some food and nutrition for the evening. For no matter how I try, in the face of melancholy, I simply cannot eat for the sake of eating. 

Then there is what is known as comfort food. In food magazines, cookbooks, Web sites and blogs, this comfort food generally seems to be some enhanced version of Midwestern standards such as meatloaf, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, pot roast and the like. And that’s fine. But rarely do my lovesick friends crawl into bed with a plate of the preceding dishes. They seem to cuddle up with salty and sweet: Cheetos and chocolate ice cream, popcorn and KitKats, pretzels and brownies. Me? The only thing I can bring myself to eat without the help of a restaurant is a slab of beef on the grill when I’ve got the blues.

Maybe I should try taking food to bed with me. Maybe Doritos and creme brulee really do have a place at the same table. Perhaps Funyuns and apple pie cure depression. What if chicharones and dulce de leche produce those endorphins I’m lacking. I could give it a try. 

But just as eating is cathartic for some, so is writing for me. I’m beginning to think I might fancy a meatball sandwich tomorrow for lunch. And this Italian deli on Dunlap makes the best. And right there at the counter, in a case, are fresh pizzelles–hey, that’s a bit of salty and sweet.

And, it’s a start. I know food doesn’t cure heartache. But for some of us, it certainly can help.