Happy birthday, semi-phallic pastry and cream. The Twinkie was invented in Chicago, eighty years ago this past week. Chicago should take pride in The Twinkie, it’s one of a few frivolously good things to originate from the Windy City, including the ferris wheel and softball. But I don’t think either one of those things can brag that it’s been used by a defense attorney in court.

A brief history lesson of the convenience store staple that makes my stomach seize: Back in 1930, the Hostess bakery manager, James Dewar, created a cake with banana-cream filling after he realized that a few of the expensive machines used to make cream-filled strawberry shortcake weren’t being used for the months when strawberries were out of season. Dewar decided that his banana-cream concoction would make a suitable stand-in, and the Twinkie was born. Even though they only cost five cents a pop, the fact that the little cakes were made before the era of preservatives, their shelf life was only two days. Fast-forward to World War II. Bananas were on the list of rationed items, and Hostess decided that the best way to deal with the shortage was to pump the cake full of vanilla-cream. The switch was such a hit that they never went back to bananas.

And I hate to piss on anyone’s urban legend, but modern Twinkies only have a shelf life of twenty-five days, not forever. But perhaps we should marvel at the actual grotesquerie of a cream-filled cake that is devoid of any dairy products. Gross.

When I encountered all of this celebratory Twinkie trivia, it got me thinking, I wonder if there are any other morsels of minutiae out there about different snacks that are taken for granted in this country. Well, the amount of history that our candies and confections have is mind-boggling. I was pretty overwhelmed by the glut of information out there about the companies that currently manufacture, or have manufactured, many of the staples we see lining the counters of our pharmacies, delicatessens, and movie theaters. Nearly every munchie has a story. Now I present to you some of the more interesting tidbits that tickled my candy-hating fancy. (Seriously. Other than the occasional box of Raisinets or Junior Mints as a kid, candy just wasn’t my bag.)

Nabisco, like many of the snack food companies and bakeries in this country, can trace its roots back beyond the 1800s. The home-oven of the original lemon meringue Oreo, Nabisco dates its founding as having taken place in 1898, while the bakery business was going through some serious consolidation efforts. Back then the majority of the successful, smaller bakeries were being bought out by larger companies. For example, Interstate Bakery became a part of Hostess, as did Drake’s (of Drake’s Cakes.) More or less, the majority of sweets you eat come from a clusterfuck of mergers that happened before you were born. One of these was Josiah Bent Bakery, which was eventually gobbled up in the chain of mergers that became Nabisco.  In 1801, though, Josie Bent’s bakers, or one of them at least, decided to call a crunchy biscuit a "cracker." And thus the only sort-of derogatory epithet for white people was born. Only kidding, sort of. Epithets aren’t too far from Nabisco products now. I’m serious. 

In 1913, the same year as the Moon Pie, someone at Nabisco decided to take a bit of graham cracker, some marshmallow, and then cover the bitch with dark chocolate. This is known as a "Mallomar," a name that was the brain child of one very inebriated factory worker eating a peanut-butter sandwich. (I made that part up.) The problem with Mallomars is that they’re fickle. In the summer they melt, so they’re pretty much only available from October through April. Oddly enough, 70% of all Mallomars are sold in the New York metropolitan area. Okay, so, onto epithets. This combo of chocolate, marshmallow, and cookie is pretty badass, no? Moon Pies, s’mores, Pinwheels, there are probably other ones that I’m forgetting, but in this country alone, we rock this sweet trifecta pretty hard. And it’s not just us Yankees who find the gooey combination to be some seriously super sweets, a lot of different countries have their version of the Mallomar. Some countries have cutesy names for it, like Scotland’s "teacake," Canada’s "Whippets," and Austria’s interesting choice of Schwedenbomben, or "Swedish bombs." Other places? Not so enticing.

In the Netherlands these treats are called "Negerzoenen," which translates into "Negro kisses." Fortunately some companies have altered the name, opting for "Zoenen," or "kisses." In Germany, their "Negerkuss" was switched to "Schokoküsse," in Lebanon the sweets first hit the market as ras el abd, which translates to "slave’s head," it’s since been switched to Tarboush, which means "Fez." In Flanders they changed the truly icky name Negerinnentetten, or negress tits, to something less offensive. Maybe "Not Racist Tasties." Although it boggles the mind to think that these names fly in other parts of the world, I didn’t even get into the full list of as-yet-unchanged international racist Mallomars. (Not affiliated with the actual cookie name Mallomar, just the combination of ingredients.)

^{What about your dog food? It doesn’t go bad, does it? Not if it’s encased in foil it doesn’t. Back in the day, Post learned that wrapping dog food in foil kept it from spoiling. They figured this nifty trick could be really useful for human food, too. Enter "Country Squares," the original, Post-brand toaster pastry, which was announced to the press in 1963 before any of them were actually made for the market. Way to screw the pooch on that one, Post. Kellogg, Post’s biggest competitor, read the papers and decided that Country Squares seemed pretty cool. So cool, in fact, that they developed their own version in six months. Combine the cutthroat manufacturing with a really aggressive marketing campaign that involved an animated toaster and a name harkening to the fresh pop-culture phenomenon of Pop Art, and the Pop-Tart was born. The fuckers became so popular, Kellogg couldn’t keep up with the demand. Of course, back in ’64 none of them were frosted, and they were only available in strawberry, blueberry, brown sugar cinnamon, and the very sophisticated-sounding apple currant. The frosted version hit the market in 1967, after they proved that it wouldn’t ignite in the toaster. Or, uh, oops.}

In 1932, M&M/MARS introduced their third brand of candy to the world. Called "The 3 Musketeers Bar," it featured three pieces of candy in one package. Reminiscent of Neapolitan ice cream (which also has a long history) the bars were flavored chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla. During World War II restrictions were placed on sugar, so the vanilla and strawberry segments were removed, leaving the most popular flavor of the three, chocolate. Back when it was introduced it only cost five cents, and it was marketed as one of the largest chocolate bars around. They also marketed it by saying you could share it with your friends, really, who’s generous enough to do that with their candy?

Mr. Goodbar, the grossest candybar ever to my younger, nut-hating self, was birthed from the cocoa-bowels of Hershey back in 1925. Recently the company began to replace some of the more pricey ingredients with cheaper ones, on that list was cocoa butter, which has now been replaced by oil substitutes. The motivation was to prevent having to raise the price for any product containing cocoa butter. Why is this weird and not just kind of sad? Because Mr. Goodbar had to have his package altered to say "made with chocolate and peanuts," instead of milk chocolate and peanuts. The ever-ridiculous, yet sometimes spot-on FDA has a law that states that recipes that don’t contain cocoa butter can’t technically be labeled milk chocolate. So Mr. Goodbar is no longer in a milky way. For the record, the Milky Way, which was the first filled chocolate bar back in 1923, was named for a milkshake, not the cosmos. And Milky Way Midnight used to be called Forever Yours, which seems appropriate for the ’70s. Now you know.

Kit Kats are different everywhere. The original version was British, only had two fingers, and hit the market on May 15, 1936. (Happy 74th birthday next month, Kit Kat.) Due to the fact that they come from across the pond, their distribution is wildly different than US candy. For one thing, a Kit Kat here is not like a Kit Kat anywhere, so don’t reach for one if you’re feeling homesick while gallivanting abroad. In the ‘Merican version of the four-fingered confection, we add more sugar and less milk in the chocolate coating. And that’s not the only difference. In Arabia there are only three fingers per pack, while Australia and France have twelve-finger options. In Japan, which has developed what I consider a sick obsession with the candy, they have a few sizes, including Kit Kat Petit, which is only half the size of a regular Kit Kat. That might not seem crazy to you, but some of the Kit Kat flavors available in Japan might: Apple Vinegar, Grilled Corn, Soy Sauce, Ginger Ale, and Maple Syrup, among others. Part of the reason why the Kit Kat is so uproariously popular over there has to do with the name. It sounds very much like the Japanese phrase kitto katsu, which loosely translates to "You will surely win!" It’s become a bit of a fad to give someone you like a Kit Kat before a test, or something equally challenging or important. Which leads me to wonder why I didn’t get a Kit Kat when I sat down to write a blog post about such an insanely detailed and well-recorded subject.

Other little details that I discovered include the fact that Doritos’ name is supposed to mean "little bits of gold" in Spanish, and they were the first tortilla chip on the national market; the package for the triangular German chocolate bar, Toblerone, has the image of a bear hidden in the Matterhorn, denoting the town of its origin; and Twix candy had a British advertising campaign with the slogan, "Twix without tea? It’s like horseriding without the horse! The Queen without her Corgis!"

Like I said, I hated candy growing up. So what did I like as a whippersnapper? Velveeta, Easy Cheese, anything that was neon orange and had the consistency of phlegm. An interesting fact about the Easy Cheese canister: it isn’t an aerosol can, but in fact uses nitrogen as its propellant. Industrial gas and cheese food. What a delicious combination.

I’ve been writing a lot recently about my eating disorder, which doesn’t really have much to do with the loosey-goosey focus of this blog (work) but has everything to do with its author. So for those of you out there who are going, "Oh, no. Is she writing about this anorexia bullshit again?" the answer is, "Zip it." And yes. One day I won’t have an eating disorder and then you’ll miss it and wonder why I’ve stopped posting about it. I’ll have to be like, "Too bad. Better go and find another blogger who subsisted on steamed broccoli and Diet Pepsi for a year and a half." And I’m sure that there are many, only they did so for financial reasons, not because they want to see if their tits could resemble a xylophone.

When I first sought recovery, I was told to get a therapist, a doctor, and a nutritionist. The therapist is there to deprogram your brain, to see how severe your disorder is, to hopefully recondition you away from thinking you look like Moby Dick in a snowsuit when you look in the mirror. Also, Doctor Feelgood can help get your ass on meds, if that’s what your particular variety of crazy requires. While the therapist handles reintroducing reality, the doctor is there to make sure you haven’t killed yourself. For me, this involved an EKG to make sure I hadn’t destroyed my heart. When the body is in starvation mode, the fucking thing eats itself, and the heart is a delicious entree when you’ve finished the appetizers of your remaining muscle tissue and the calcium from your bones. It’s not just the coke that kills models under the age of thirty. After the EKG, I had bloodwork done to check for vitamin deficiencies and so on. Following all of the initial hoopla, the doctor weighed me every week and checked my blood pressure, which initially presented as very low, another typical symptom of an eating disorder. Low blood-pressure isn’t much fun, you practically pass out when you lift a hairbrush to your ever-thinning mane. But all in all, it seemed that I walked away from anorexia with little more than a pretty zen resting heart rate. Oh, and menopausal-level estrogen, which hasn’t been restored. We’re on month #15 of the great blood drought.

So therapist, check. Doctor, check. Nutritionist? I called my insurance company and discovered that because I’m not diabetic, a nutritionist wouldn’t be covered under my plan. Sure, I could get reimbursed for the therapy sessions because I was diagnosed as an anorexic for mental health purposes, but that diagnoses didn’t give me a free hall pass to get into the nutritionist’s office. When I called around to see how much it would be out of pocket, I nearly threw up. Which probably would have made me pretty happy, since I still wasn’t on board with this whole recovery thing. Several hundred dollars would be the grand total for any initial visit to a nutritionist on Long Island. Ridiculous, impossible, and maddening. I decided that I had my doctor and therapist to teach me how to eat. I’d be fine. I mean, how hard could it be? So long as I was shoving something down my throat that wasn’t attached to a body and didn’t get spit out, I was doing better. Possibly not okay. But better.

Let me be frank, after a year of recovery, I’m still pretty fucked up. Sure, I’m a healthy weight and eating regularly. I indulge in treats that most girls regret every so often. I take a day off of working out a week, and I’ve bought larger clothes. There are days when I don’t obsess about my weight. But I still found myself behaving less-than-normally about food, and not just because I’m vegan. My approach was bizarre, as though everything I wanted to eat had a tremendous impact on how much I weighed. I was still confining myself to self-determined "safe" foods. For whatever bizarre reason, I quaked in my Converse when confronted with an avocado. While I might have appeared to be recovered on the outside, anyone who was close to me knew I was still suffering. It’s not punk rock to be this kind of batshit. Refusing to eat olive oil or dark chocolate is anything but badass.

I finally got fed up and frightened. If I could restrict the kinds of foods I ate, it was only a matter of time before I started to restrict the amount of food I ate. I hit the web and searched for nutritionists in my area. After writing five or six, I compared rates. All were more than I’d like to spend, because, in truth, I’d like to spend nothing and have no problem eating sandwiches or cookies or whatever. But I didn’t choose my nutritionist simply because she wrote me the most detailed response that mapped out her experience working with clients who had eating disorders, and I didn’t choose her because she wasn’t the most pricey of the bunch. It was because she writes the "Eat This, Not This" section for Glamour, which I always thought was kind of cool. Also, she’s really cute in her photograph, and her website is expertly designed. See? Extremely well thought-out decision. Whatever, all of the reviews that I could find about her online were stellar, and she was pretty close to the house.

It should be noted that a nutritionist and a dietitian are not the same thing. If you’re in the market for a nutritionist, double-check on their credentials. A nutritionist, or Certified Nutrition Specialist (CNS) has a license. Being a CNS doesn’t mean that they’ve necessarily had a rigorous training regimen, though. It’s a title that doesn’t require hands-on training in a clinic, or any sort of real field work. A Certified Dietetic Nutritionist is a title that does require jumping through a series of educational and professional hoops in order to get a license, but not all states require that you have this license to practice. It’s good to poke around and see what your state thinks about licensing, and to make sure that whoever you choose actually has a background that reflects that they know what they’re doing. Nutritionists aren’t regulated. Nearly anyone can call themselves a nutritionist, so, again, make sure that you investigate whether or not the person you’re interested in seeing has completed any sciences courses, or if they have a BFA in screenwriting. Chances are, if they tell you that you can just drink a few canned shakes a day, or to skip meals if you want some Ho-Hos, you’re in the wrong hands.

A Registered dietitian, or RD, needs to obtain a bachelor’s degree in dietetics, to complete an internship with at least 900 hours, to take (and pass) an exam, and to complete fifty continuing education credits every five years if they want to keep their license. To put it simply, it’s the real deal. In legal terms, dietitians are considered experts on nutrition. Nutritionists are not. (Don’t let the name fool you.)

This isn’t to say that you can’t get help from someone who simply holds a CNS license. I’m just illuminating the differences in the field, and also why some of these bitches are so damn expensive.

 
The woman I chose to see was a member of the American Dietetic Association, the Greater New York Dietetic Association, and belonged to many other practice groups, including a Women’s Health and Reproductive Nutrition organization. But I knew that when it came right down to it, none of her credentials would matter if I didn’t trust her. I’m like Comet kitchen cleaner when it comes to judgment: abrasive and fast-acting. Our first meeting would make or break my relationship to her, or possibly my relationship to food.

Upon first glance, she looked a lot like one of the girls who hated me in high-school. Pretty, put-together, with a fashionable and yet casual outfit and an orthodonture-perfect smile. I was skeptical. This was the kind of woman who either views me as something she accidentally stepped in, or who runs from a conversation with me ripping her hair out of her head and cursing her latent homosexual urges. Or just finds me dull.

After five minutes, I was hooked. She inspired me to laugh at some of my more moronic choices and irrational thoughts, as she illuminated how combining healthy fats, carbohydrates, and protein keeps a body satiated and prevents it from feeling like it could be knocked over by an errant toy poodle. Although a lot of what she told me seemed like common sense,or information I could find on my own with the aid of Google or a library card, something about the way she spoke made the information sink deeply into my starving little brain. I left armed with a week-long meal plan, a food diary template, and a follow-up appointment for the next week as part of the "Jump-Start" package (a 1.5 hour initial consult plus three half-hour follow-up meetings. A good deal.)

Since I met up with my RD, I’ve been eating like a champ. I’m not kidding when I tell you that I haven’t eaten this well, this consistently, ever. I’m still evidently a bit of a mess, and if it wasn’t for the rigorous rules I’m supposed to follow, the portion sizes that have been assigned, and the really detailed list of foods that I’m encouraged to eat, I think I’d be completely lost. For some reason, having an authority figure seems to rein in my unruly, anorexic self. For anyone struggling with any food-related issues, I highly recommend seeing a registered dietitian or certified nutritionist. You might feel like a bit of a nincompoop documenting every morsel that passes through your gullet, but I can guarantee that you’ll be full of peace of mind.

You can find information about eating disorder recovery, including how and where to seek treatment and find support groups, by clicking on SomethingFishy.org.

To find out about registered dietitians in your area, consult the American Dietetic Association’s website, eatright.org. They also have information on how to pursue a career as an RD, along with tons of tips on healthy eating. Check it out.

Even though most of my friends have steakgasms every time we walk past Morton’s, and even though my family participates in a weekly beef-a-thon known as Sunday dinner, and even though the Internet looks at bacon the way that my great-grandparents looked at refrigeration, I’m still proud to be a non-meat eater. Although I’m uncomfortable with tacking a label on it (I’m more likely to call myself a veterinarian to get a laugh and change the subject,) I don’t eat meat, dairy, or eggs, and I haven’t for a few years. That said, when an Outback Steakhouse commercial comes on, I can guarantee I will be the only person in the room who actually has to use her sleeve to mop up the drool. And the reason for this shameful salivary response is probably due to a food stylist. Or an iron deficiency.

For the record, I have never been to an Outback Steakhouse.

Food stylists get paid to make people want to eat shit. The burgers you see on Whopper commercials, with their golden, fluffy buns and thick, dripping patties really pale in comparison to the hockey pucks on soggy bread that you get at the ‘King. And what about those chicken, er, bits that make your mouth become the set of Rescue Me and tigers jump through your eyes, the ones that are hocked by KFC? (Or KGC? They’re going through some sort of rebranding.) In all likelihood they don’t come with genuine grill marks and juicy centers. Friendly’s commercials? You know that aerosol whipped cream doesn’t look like that. Denny’s? I never saw a Grand Slam where every item didn’t look like it had been put through a washing machine filled with Astroglide. And all of those gorgeous photographs that grace the pages of fading magazines? Food stylists are the evil sorcerers who make you actually think that you can cook sweet and sour eggplant and onion stew and have it look like something that hasn’t been regurgitated by a frat boy on Saturday morning.

All of this said, it’s pretty cool how food stylists get you to gain ten pounds. And, even more appealing, once you know that those pancakes are actually slathered in motor oil, maybe the IHOP commercial won’t make you dash out in your pajamas in the dead of night and scarf down a Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n Fruity with a side order of self-hate.

Take note that a lot of the tricks are only gross ’cause they’re combined with scarf-worthy goodies. The reason why they have to at least include some elements of real food is because the rules of advertising. After all, how can you truly be paid to sell salad dressing if your commercial only includes propylene glycol?

If you’re sitting in front of the TV and find yourself seduced by the burlesque of bacon or the temptation of turkey, keep in mind that a lot of the meat products are raw. Poultry is usually completely raw, or briefly cooked just to get the skin slightly browned. The rest is done with a blowtorch. The shrimp, lobster, and other ocean delights caught by the ever-capable fisherman Long John Silver and his cousins the Red Lobster and Mr. Sizzler are all coated in glycerin to make them look wet and succulent. The practical application of this in my own life is a sort of kinky possibility. After all, the stuff’s non-toxic.

Most of those curvy breasts you see on television are turkeys injected with mashed potatoes just below their skin. Mashed potatoes are almost like the duct tape of food styling, they’re also an option when it comes to making believable-looking ice cream that won’t turn into drippy goo like a teenage girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. Stylists scoop the starch, freeze it, and then use it in the place of French vanilla on a wafer cone. And when you think those drips of syrup would only be more perfect atop your girlfriend’s boobs, it pays to consider that there are often tiny, curled up pieces of paper towel below them, in order to make them look more drip-tacular and symmetrical. (Ever squeeze Hershey’s on ice cream? It often just runs straight off, no drips, no sensuous droplets. Paper towels apparently are a lot more forgiving than mocha chip.)

Mashed potatoes might be a good ‘scream stand-in for some, but for the real pros, they go to Trengove Studios. Based in New York, Trengove is the go-to place for everything from replica resin cherries to that super-cool crushed ice you see sliding down the barrel of a Bud, or droplets of water (brand name, Aqua Drops) weeping along the neck of a Dos Equis. Since 1985, Trengove has been providing fake food and handmade replicas of comestibles to the full spectrum of food photographers and stylists. The best from the best doesn’t come cheap, however. Most of the faux food on the site costs more than an entree at even the toniest New York City restaurant.

Of course, if you can’t pay $58.00 for a scoop, you can always use another mix for ice cream trickery, Crisco mixed with powdered sugar in it, which I do believe is an actual Southern dessert.

Recently, the push for local and organic food has altered the image industry, making the emphasis on "realistic" looking munchies, versus picture-perfect ones. Another shift has come courtesy of technology. Back before digital photography was all the rage, stylists were lucky to get about five shots completed in a day’s work. Today, even though food still suffers under hot studio lights, the average day of shooting can net 15-20 twenty shots, as digital film allows photographers, stylists, and the overlords of the media to make sure that each picture entices the dumb public to scarf down White Castle. For any of you who may be foolish enough to shed a tear for the rail-thin, rail-sniffing models who grace the glossies, food really does have a rougher time on set. Noodles are pinched and swirled with tweezers, fruit is sprayed with deodorant to give it a frosty look, and cake is attacked with hair spray to make it appear fresh and moist.

If playing with your food appeals to you, and you enjoy working with photographers, perhaps becoming a food stylist is your calling. Communications and food science courses are key to have in your background, as you’ll need to be familiar with how both food and ad execs work under pressure. If your goal is to put piping-hot cotton balls beneath a plate of pasta to make it look steaming, then go and get a degree from a culinary school and learn about the chemistry of food. Many, like the Culinary Institute of America, offer concentrations or classes that lend themselves well to food styling. Once you start getting credits for your cuisine education, try to become an assistant to an already established food stylist. A piece of advice for this industry, as with many, is to work your way up. Speak to people who have worked for photographers or ad execs, suck up as much information as you can, like a Shredded Wheat square sucking up 2%. (The way food stylists prevent cereal from getting soggy on a shoot is to use white glue or hair conditioner in place of milk. Yummy.)

But when it comes to watching television or reading a magazine, and hearing your stomach give you a little paradiddle to tell you that Taco Bell is open late and Wendy’s is as real as a cholesterol problem, remember what George Orwell once said, "Advertising is the rattling of a stick inside a swill bucket." Chow down.