all-milkshake meal plan on groups of college students living in a simulated space capsule at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in 1964. A significant portion of it ended up beneath the floorboards.)
The only thing sadder than swallowing mush is not swallowing at all. Tube-feeding is a deeply depressing state of affairs. Rather than chew and spit out his food, Tom Little—the Irishman with the strictured esophagus—could have mashed it and pushed it directly into his stomach. In fact, he tried this, but without chewing, it “failed to satisfy.” (Beer, however, was poured directly into the funnel.) Here’s how badly people want to chew. Recall that dysphagia may knock out the reflex that repositions the larynx (voice box) to allow food into the esophagus. Jennifer Long told me these patients have on occasion asked to have their voice box surgically removed so they can swallow again. In other words, they would rather be mute than tube-fed.
Crispy foods carry a uniquely powerful appeal. I asked Chen what might lie behind this seemingly universal drive to crunch things in our mouths. “I believe human being has a destructive nature in its genes,” he answered. “Human has a strange way of stress-release by punching, kicking, smashing, or other forms of destructive actions. Eating could be one of them. The action of teeth crushing food is a destructive process, and we receive pleasure from that, or become de-stressed.”
I run this by René de Wijk when I get back to his house in the evening. He is slouched on the sofa, his frizzy hair falling in clumps on his forehead. His son sits between us, playing Assassin’s Creed on the TV screen. A man in a cowled robe is doing some de-stressing, bludgeoning people and slicing them in two with a broadsword.
René agrees with Chen’s assessment. “With crispy, it’s so obvious that you’re destroying the food in order to get your sensation. What is more marvelous than to control a nice structure with your mouth?” René doesn’t know offhand of any studies on the psychology of crunchy food, but he promised to e-mail a colleague, Ton van Vliet, a food physicist who has devoted the past eight years of his career to a deeper understanding of crispy-crunchy.
The assassin bisects another citizen while René and his wife discuss the thermostat. The heating people have been out to fix it, and now they’re coming back because it’s on the fritz again. I point the toe of my boot at the TV. “That guy seems effective. Get him on board.”
René looks at the screen. “He has his creed, he would kill the heating people!”
I was originally to have spent the afternoon with René in the Wageningen University Oral Lab. He had promised to wire me up to the articulograph and generate a 3-D profile of my chewing style, but he couldn’t recall which sensor went where. I sat with a beard of colored wires hanging from my cheeks while René flipped through the manual. And then he had to leave for a meeting.
Nonetheless, he’s been very effective at persuading other harried researchers to let me eat up their time. Ton van Vliet has agreed to meet us the following day at my home-away-from-home, the Restaurant of the Future.
V AN V LIET IS there when René and I arrive, sitting with his back to us at a table in the middle of the room. René recognizes the white hair. The longer strands appear to originate from a source at the back of the head and travel forward from there. All I can guess is that he walked here with a fierce wind at his back.
Van Vliet looks up as if from deep thought, a little startled, and extends his hand. He has a fine-boned face accented by an Amish-style beard and delicate-looking wire-rim glasses. I don’t want to use the word elfin, in case it seems belittling, but it did come to mind.
Van Vliet wants to start me out with the basics of crispy-crunchy. We begin with nature’s version, a fresh apple or carrot. “It’s all bubbles and beams,” he says,
The only thing sadder than swallowing mush is not swallowing at all. Tube-feeding is a deeply depressing state of affairs. Rather than chew and spit out his food, Tom Little—the Irishman with the strictured esophagus—could have mashed it and pushed it directly into his stomach. In fact, he tried this, but without chewing, it “failed to satisfy.” (Beer, however, was poured directly into the funnel.) Here’s how badly people want to chew. Recall that dysphagia may knock out the reflex that repositions the larynx (voice box) to allow food into the esophagus. Jennifer Long told me these patients have on occasion asked to have their voice box surgically removed so they can swallow again. In other words, they would rather be mute than tube-fed.
Crispy foods carry a uniquely powerful appeal. I asked Chen what might lie behind this seemingly universal drive to crunch things in our mouths. “I believe human being has a destructive nature in its genes,” he answered. “Human has a strange way of stress-release by punching, kicking, smashing, or other forms of destructive actions. Eating could be one of them. The action of teeth crushing food is a destructive process, and we receive pleasure from that, or become de-stressed.”
I run this by René de Wijk when I get back to his house in the evening. He is slouched on the sofa, his frizzy hair falling in clumps on his forehead. His son sits between us, playing Assassin’s Creed on the TV screen. A man in a cowled robe is doing some de-stressing, bludgeoning people and slicing them in two with a broadsword.
René agrees with Chen’s assessment. “With crispy, it’s so obvious that you’re destroying the food in order to get your sensation. What is more marvelous than to control a nice structure with your mouth?” René doesn’t know offhand of any studies on the psychology of crunchy food, but he promised to e-mail a colleague, Ton van Vliet, a food physicist who has devoted the past eight years of his career to a deeper understanding of crispy-crunchy.
The assassin bisects another citizen while René and his wife discuss the thermostat. The heating people have been out to fix it, and now they’re coming back because it’s on the fritz again. I point the toe of my boot at the TV. “That guy seems effective. Get him on board.”
René looks at the screen. “He has his creed, he would kill the heating people!”
I was originally to have spent the afternoon with René in the Wageningen University Oral Lab. He had promised to wire me up to the articulograph and generate a 3-D profile of my chewing style, but he couldn’t recall which sensor went where. I sat with a beard of colored wires hanging from my cheeks while René flipped through the manual. And then he had to leave for a meeting.
Nonetheless, he’s been very effective at persuading other harried researchers to let me eat up their time. Ton van Vliet has agreed to meet us the following day at my home-away-from-home, the Restaurant of the Future.
V AN V LIET IS there when René and I arrive, sitting with his back to us at a table in the middle of the room. René recognizes the white hair. The longer strands appear to originate from a source at the back of the head and travel forward from there. All I can guess is that he walked here with a fierce wind at his back.
Van Vliet looks up as if from deep thought, a little startled, and extends his hand. He has a fine-boned face accented by an Amish-style beard and delicate-looking wire-rim glasses. I don’t want to use the word elfin, in case it seems belittling, but it did come to mind.
Van Vliet wants to start me out with the basics of crispy-crunchy. We begin with nature’s version, a fresh apple or carrot. “It’s all bubbles and beams,” he says,
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