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.