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Lex maniac

Investigating changes in American English vocabulary over the last 50 years

Tag Archives: food

crunch time

(1980’s | journalese? | “when the chips are down,” “time to get down to brass tacks”)

I don’t know why it has taken me so long to notice the great “crunch” cluster. The word unadorned denotes an abdominal exercise. Then ya got “crunchy,” ya got “crunch the numbers,” and “crunch time,” derived from the sense of “shortage” or “crisis,” or, ideally, crisis caused by shortage. In my boyhood, “energy crunch,” which would have translated either as shortage or crisis, became common. (“Crunch” has had that sense for decades, but why? I’m not sure, but it may have to do with feeling crunched, that is, constrained and uncomfortable. See below.) The first examples I found of “crunch time” date from the late sixties, but use didn’t really pick up until after 1980, or so says LexisNexis. During the eighties, it entered sports slang decisively, but it didn’t originate there. The word has become less specific over time, as often happens; now “crunch time” need have nothing to do with shortages but still evokes crisis. It’s time to get serious and give it everything you’ve got — an impending disaster, a looming deadline, the end of a close game. The expression may be used in lighthearted ways, as the name of an apple festival, for example, but the more foreboding use predominates.

The root word calls up a certain sound or texture and pertains originally to chewing, and this sense underlies at least two of the expressions noted above. The fitness term is noteworthy because it abandons the sound that used to be a necessary part of the concept, while retaining the idea of grinding things together. As for the second, used of hippies and tree-huggers, the path back to the root meaning is pretty clear; those who live off the land eat crunchy (unprocessed) food, and the word goes well with both nuts and granola, foodstuffs long associated with the natural set. As I speculated earlier, “crunch the numbers” may go back to the idea of chewing up a big mouthful of cereal, reducing it to swallowable mush — thus, digesting reams and reams of raw numbers into a few useful trends or principles. I have an equally fanciful etymology for “crunch time.” I think of workers caught in the gears of a giant machine, constantly in danger of being crushed between metal teeth (wait, that reminds me of a movie). Or metal plates, if you prefer the garbage compactor in Star Wars. Crunch time is when if you don’t exert yourself and get the job done, you get crunched. Or scrunched. Or crushed.

It’s unusual to see so many different meanings in widely divergent fields sprung from the same root. It’s not like “crunch” has been around all that long — invented in the first half of the nineteenth century, says the OED — and just in the last fifty years it has produced a fine litter of idioms. I’m impressed.

“Crunch time” recalls an older concept, the moment of truth — also a crisis, but of a kind that reveals, or forms, character. Is it just something you have to push through and get past, or is it a more portentous test? Everyday usage doesn’t make much of a distinction. Any crisis might derail the operation, after all; any failure to come through in the clutch may sink the project and ruin a career. In a game, at the office . . . crunch time always carries the potential for heroism. We’re knights enduring ordeals or matadors preparing for death in the afternoon as we hunch over our keyboards, bathed in the stale sweat of stress.

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comfort food

(1980’s | journalese (gastronomy) | “home cooking,” “favorite dish”)

You could construct a good personality test by asking subjects to define this expression and list examples. Food writers use it confidently, but it has a wide range of meaning, though the gradations can be pretty subtle. The bottom lines that seem to underlie every use of the phrase: it has to be something the diner is already familiar with, and likes. Beyond that, it can go in several directions with equal confidence. Obviously, there is some overlap among the categories below, but I find the taxonomy helpful:

-What you ate when you were a small child, therefore often mushy or liquid, that makes you feel like you’re in Mama’s arms again. In other words, comforting food. Things like macaroni and cheese or tomato soup.

-What lovely Liz from Queens calls “white food.” Also often mushy and associated with childhood, but the point is it’s uncomplicated — bland and starchy as well as pale in color. Mashed potatoes, bananas, vanilla ice cream.

-What people eat in the country. “Comfort food” is sometimes used as a synonym for down-home dishes, and it may have a strong regional tinge. Comfort foods in the South may differ from comfort foods in the Northwest, for example (Moon Pies are not big in Seattle). Burritos in the Southwest, lobster rolls in the Northeast.

-Anything plain and unsurprising. Sometimes “comfort food” refers to things that are simple to prepare as well as eat, perhaps with the implication that it’s for family consumption rather than guests. This covers the first two above and other areas as well. Oatmeal, spaghetti, scrambled eggs.

-Heavy or at least substantial preparations; usually meat, frying, or both are involved. Meat loaf, casseroles, pot roast, burger and fries. Don’t be alarmed if the word “rib-sticking” appears nearby.

-Whatever you happen to enjoy, whatever makes you feel better for having eaten it, or makes up for a bad day. This sense of the term really opens the floodgates; now fancy gourmet concoctions can sit right beside the humblest fare. Sushi or catfish, crème brulée or egg custard, sweetbreads or scrapple. Such broad usage may be an abuse of the term, but you hear it a fair amount.

Notable by its absence from the lists above is the noble vegetable. The more effort it requires to eat, and the less obviously sweet, salty, or fatty it is, the less likely it will qualify as comfort food (except under the last definition, where anything goes).

There are some obvious faults — in the geological sense — in the meaning of “comfort food” that help explain the multiplicity sketched above. The main one: both personal preference and social custom are part of the field covered by this expression, and neither can be disregarded. Each person has their own, to some degree, but there is usually a fairly strong consensus on what most people in the same culture would consider comfort food. If your version of it is a rice cake with a shmear of tofu, that’s your business, but don’t expect your peers to share your tastes. Another fault: Lovers of exotic cuisine may depict “comfort food” with a sneer as unworthy of an adventurous palate, but more often it operates with reverse snobbery, as the lower classes contrast their chow lovingly with the pretentious, fussy gourmet variety. I also note in passing that “comfort food” partakes of nostalgia, real or imagined, especially when it summons our childhood diet or rural eating habits. But once again, the nostalgia may be deeply personal (childhood) or sociocultural (down home). Another point of negative interest: the expression is rarely used metaphorically (e.g., calling a novel “literary comfort food” as a reviewer in the New York Times did in 1987). We have chicken soup for the soul, but comfort food fills only the belly. To round off this sequence of unrelated points, I will suggest that there is no direct connection between the rises of “comfort zone” and “comfort food,” but they occurred at the same time, and it’s quite possible the two expressions helped each other into everyday language.

My brilliant, beautiful girlfriend gave me this expression months ago, and I finally decided to take a bite out of it. Thanks, baby!

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foodie

(1980’s | journalese | “gourmet,” “epicure”)

A British import, like “over the top” or “at the end of the day,” this word flared up when a bestseller used it in the title in 1984: “The Official Foodie’s Handbook.” (Only a couple of instances have been found in print before then, at least one of those attributable to one of the authors.) And it meant then what it means now, someone obsessed with cuisine — ingredients, preparation, or both — to the point that it is easy to make fun of them. Although some use the word with pride, non-foodies generally use it with at least a hint of condescension or exasperation. Food is important, and it’s a fine idea to take pleasure in eating it, as anyone who has spent time around an anorexic can tell you. But foodies may do so to such an exaggerated degree that non-initiates can’t really take them seriously. Their raptures often come across as forced and stagey, more a matter of competing with each other than expressing a genuine appreciation for the gust and lore of their aliment. Nearly all of us delight in taking pretentious know-it-alls down a peg, so we are prone to suspect that most of these people haven’t the least idea what they are talking about. And we are bound to be right a high percentage of the time. (Urban Dictionary offers some sulfurous definitions of the term along those lines.) The most likely antecedents were “preppie” and “yuppie,” words that had taken hold only a few years earlier (“Foodie” authors Ann Barr and Paul Levy alluded directly to “The Official Preppie Handbook” in their title). My first thought was that “Trekkie” lurks in the background. It conveys the same sense of fervid, fanatical devotion that “foodie” does — far better than “preppie” or “yuppie.” I don’t know how common “Trekkie” was in England, though.

Another reason this word is so annoying, aside from the people it applies to, is that it partakes of the irritating British habit of taking perfectly useful words and adding diminutive or cutesy suffixes, hacking off syllables as needed. (The British have a long tradition of swallowing syllables, but tell me, is “Featherstonehaugh” really pronounced “Fanshaw”? I suspect that was Wodehouse’s idea of a joke, but I’ve never been quite sure, what with Cholmondeley and Marjoribanks.) I ask you: “Chocky” (a piece of chocolate), “preggers” (pregnant), “botty burp” (fart), “brolly” (umbrella), champers (champagne), sarnie (sandwich). There are dozens of them. Then there’s things like “billy-o,” “tickety-boo,” or “moggie” (cat), where the word sounds like it was invented on a particularly obnoxious kids’ television program, even though no orthographic surgery is involved. Are these not the effluvia of a decaying culture? This from the once-proud nation that gave us rhyming slang, which is both amusing and intellectually stimulating, when not downright mystifying. Why does “me old china” mean “old friend”? Well, it’s really “me old china plate,” which rhymes with “mate,” which means “friend.” Then you get rid of the actual rhyming part because that would make it too easy. That’s three steps you have to go through — not for dummies. Rhyming slang is still around, and new terms continue to come forth (as in “britney [spears]” for “beers”), so it hasn’t been supplanted. But it’s a shame that the Brits insist on obscuring a powerful slang tradition with a glut of cloying, infantilized, and frankly unnecessary expressions. Yes, I am a blogger who loves words, but if you call me a “wordie,” I will find you and wreak dire vengeance.

Thanks to my sister for proposing this week’s expression! I was surprised that I hadn’t made a note of “foodie” on any of my rather disorganized lists, but surprises like that keep this blog entertaining, for me, at least.

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