Amber Baird, Author

Giant burgers, dripping with cheese, grease running down my arm. Deep-fried fish and chips, soaked with malt vinegar, the ideal delivery mechanism for creamy tartar sauce. Pasta, authentic or otherwise, preferably coated in fat and garnished with pungent parmesan. Still-warm fresh bread glistening with butter and honey, sprinkled with flaky salt. Pizza, every kind: floppy New Yorks and Chicago casseroles and California thin crusts and midwestern squares with cured pork toppings and healthy mozzarella pulls.

If she wasn’t already dead, along with the rest of my family, I’d trade my grandma for any of the above.

It’s called food noise, this obsession, this yearning for my next meal even while still eating. Oprah says she has it too, but there’s a cure, a shot, a lifeline.

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