To Be a Foodie Is Not a Bad Thing — Part Two
When I Become Rich, I Won’t Live Big. I’ll Eat Differently.
By Joan A. Roberts
Sometimes I ask myself what I would do differently if I became rich.
Would I buy more cars? Move into a much bigger house? I do not think those would be my first priorities. Giving to others would be non-negotiable. There are people I would want to help, needs I would want to meet, and blessings I would want to share.
But there is another answer, a very personal one.
I would eat better.
I am a foodie, after all. Let me enjoy my calling—and the blessings of my hard work.
When I say I would eat big, I do not mean enormous portions. I mean giving a meal a little more time, thought, and pleasure. Tiny portions of things I love, put together with care. A first course, a main course, and a third course worth lingering over.
My starter might be a small scoop of ice cream and a tiny cupcake. Yes, I know those usually belong at the end. But at my own table, I might begin with a little sweetness. Let the meal know whose house it has entered.
Then comes the main dish: meat, chicken, or fish, a little carbohydrate, and vegetables. Real vegetables—broccoli, green peas, green beans, a little carrot, and onions. I want something to eat, not only something to admire. Still, I would welcome a little parsley as a garnish, that delicate green finishing touch that makes a plate look lovingly arranged.
I remember an outing when we went out to eat as a family. I began to relish the idea of garnishing my own meals with parsley. Then I started doing it. A little leaf, a little care, and the plate felt special.
I began to imagine what we could enjoy within the confines of home: a candlelit dinner, a lovely table, and time to sit together. Sometimes a home already welcomes that kind of evening. Sometimes you create the welcome yourself.
There is pleasure in making home a place you cannot wait to return to. You can prepare something lovely, arrange the table, and enjoy an intimate evening without spending beyond your means. Call me cheap sometimes, if you must; I would happily enjoy my dinner anyway.
What draws me is the comfort: making home everything it can be, giving it that inviting indoor appeal, and letting food become a reason for the family to gather. A familiar table can hold so much—conversation, laughter, gratitude, and the simple pleasure of being together.
My third course would be yogurt and nuts: almonds, cashews, perhaps walnuts, mixed into a small bowl or served alongside it. There would also be a little bowl of fruit—blueberries, strawberries, and bite-sized pieces of apple, with the skin or without. No bananas or grapes. Just small tastes of the things I enjoy.
Someone might look at all those dishes and say, “Isn’t that too much?”
But look again. A little of this, a little of that. Enough variety to make me happy, with portions small enough to savor.
And I would take my time.
I would look at the plate before picking up my fork. Not because the world needs another picture, or because someone must say, “Wow.” I would want to notice the colors, the care, the work that brought the meal to the table.
Then I would thank the Lord.
For the food. For the hands that prepared it. For the strength to work and the grace to enjoy a blessing from that work. For an ordinary moment in which I can sit down, breathe, and receive something good.
I want meals that leave a pleasant memory. On a busy day, when I cannot cook as I would like, I want to remember that taste and look forward to making time again. Even when I am only a little distance from home, I want the thought of my own table to make me eager to return.
I did this often as a single woman: set a lovely table just for myself and savor the moment. Sometimes a friend would tell me I looked like someone who took her time preparing food. There was something about the way I carried myself, they said, that gave them that impression. They were not wrong.
Open my lunch bag, and there would be three tiny bowls, thoughtfully packed: fruit, nuts and yogurt, and a little meal with vegetables. Nothing extravagant. Just a little variety and care, carried with me into the day.
I was not rich. It was simply my way of telling myself, “I love me, and I love to take care of me.” I did not need company at the table to make the effort worthwhile.
Perhaps that is what wealth would change for me: more room in the day for this kind of enjoyment. But some of it is already mine.
I would still give. I would still learn. And sometimes, I would set a lovely table just for myself.
To be a foodie is not a bad thing. There is pleasure in preparing something beautiful, gratitude in receiving it, and joy in taking the first bite.
When I become rich, I won’t live big, and I wouldn’t eat big. I would eat differently.
And, of course, I would eat like a lady. A little elegance, a little cupcake, and no apologies for enjoying either.
