{"id":2308,"date":"2025-08-21T19:27:45","date_gmt":"2025-08-21T11:27:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/handelbarweb.com\/blog\/?p=2308"},"modified":"2026-03-19T15:47:43","modified_gmt":"2026-03-19T07:47:43","slug":"fuel-as-food-for-thought","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/handelbarweb.com\/blog\/fuel-as-food-for-thought\/","title":{"rendered":"Fuel as Food for Thought"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"Engine
Gourmet plating meets garage logic in surreal satire.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\nFueling Folklore<\/span>\n
We mythologize meals like they\u2019re sacred rites, yet forget food is just fuel\u2014ignored until the tank runs dry. This post riffs on our ritualistic obsession with eating, poking fun at the cosmic drama we assign to snacks.<\/div>\n\n\n\n

A bunch of motor enthusiasts gather at a car rally, sleeves rolled, egos revving. They swap tales of rebored engines, piston honing, and chrome-plated existential upgrades. These stories bear witness to the proud metamorphosis of a \u2018standard\u2019 vehicle into something grander\u2014something eye-catching, fire-breathing, and vaguely divine. A chariot of combustion. A myth on wheels.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now, if we were to equate a person to a vehicle (and why not, it\u2019s cheaper than therapy), then food would equate to\u2026 yes, you probably got it. Fuel. Gasoline. Petroleum. The go-juice. The edible accelerant. And yet, our rally-goers aren\u2019t waxing poetic about fuel. No, and why would they? Fuel is just fuel. It\u2019s not part of the mythic equation. It\u2019s the backstage crew, not the lead actor. Necessary, yes\u2014but gloriously unremarkable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So back to this fuel called food. Sure, there are more options now\u2014chia smoothies, kale confetti, and ethically sourced unicorn jerky. But simple choices remain sufficiently sufficient. Excess still bloats, moderation usually rewards, and even moderation should be used in moderation. (Because sometimes, a reckless flirtation with tiramisu is the only way to feel alive.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Alternatively, you could count joules. You could pioneer a strain of lima beans optimized for left-handed redheads with mild seasonal depression. You might monitor the metabolic rates of identical twins raised such that when one eats an orange, the other eats an apple\u2014just to prove that apples should be orange and oranges should come with a zipper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

With sufficient funding, you might draft a meticulous set of rules concerning the sacred order of food consumption. Imagine a Twitter feed called #EatDessertFirst, followed by a cult, followed by a schism, followed by a Netflix docuseries. Suddenly, you\u2019re authoring a holy scripture full of dietary commandments. Thou shalt not microwave fish in the office. Thou shalt not trust a salad with raisins. And to what end? Simply to reinforce the notion that food is the stuff of myth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I digress.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No thanks. I\u2019ll just fuel up\u2014toast, beans, maybe a rogue fig\u2014and get on with playing at living a life that, every so often, backfires into something mythic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Editor’s Note: While this post satirizes our mythic obsession with meals and the rituals we wrap around food, it\u2019s worth remembering that for many, \u201cfuel\u201d isn\u2019t metaphor\u2014it\u2019s survival. The luxury of dietary philosophy pales beside the urgency of hunger. As we riff on snackrifice and carburetor buffets, let\u2019s not forget the real work: fueling the poor with dignity, access, and empathy. Every plate should be a promise, not a privilege.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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