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Flamin' Hot Indulgence

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I’m sure Gwyneth Paltrow and her Goop disciples would chastise me for my enthusiastic consumption of carbohydrates, but bread is god’s nectar witched into dough, and I will not forsake it.

And as for “junk food,” that obscure category, I don’t gravitate toward much of it. When I was growing up, my mother would anoint our school lunches with Little Debbie treats — Oatmeal Creme (sic) Pies, Swiss Rolls — and our pantry generally housed a bag or two of Utz potato chips, but the gastronomical larks stopped there. My sisters and I drank milk with dinner every night. We took vitamins as directed. We were flush with privilege: Our parents possessed the means to feed us bountifully, and our mother dedicated herself to our welfare; she cooked for us most every night. My indulgences tend to correspond with the felicities enabled by an upper-middle-class socioeconomic background: cheeses from specialty stores, crème brûlée at a well-reviewed French restaurant, tea cookies from Whole Foods. In every culinary choice, my coddled upbringing rears its cushioned head.

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I can’t argue for the virtues of the Flamin’ Hot Cheetos: None exist. They’re amoral and fundamentally neutral, no more capable of assuaging my grief than the empty husk of “thoughts and prayers.” But not everything requires meaning — not everything needs to be something else. When I tuck away a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, I do it because I like them, because they’re nothing more than what they reveal themselves to be. That’s enough.

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