We all see them. They stare from on high like delicious idols, perhaps slightly too big for one student to eat alone. But still, we try. We bring giant backpacks and coats, wait for the kitchen workers to turn their backs so we can stuff whole raw peppers and stalks of corn inside, and run. It feels like a victory, until you realize: how am I going to cook an entire raw eggplant? How am I going to eat ten giant celery sticks in one week?
The vegetables are too large in size to eat at McEwen in one sitting, and we all know that we're not supposed to take food back to our dorm rooms. So what, exactly, are they doing there, artfully arranged in their rustic bushels? And why does that celery, green and fresh, look so much better than the paling, wet, celery, we are invited to take from the salad bar?
The messages are implicit and explicit. "Fresh" proclaim some bushels, in chalk (read: rustic.) "Local." While some of the food in McEwen is locally sourced, the fruits and vegetables that live in the "local" bins are not always. Everywhere you go in McEwen, the "healthiness" of the dining hall is proclaimed, from the gluten-free deserts (because of how we have been conditioned to think, somehow we all believe that these are healthier, though studies show that eating a gluten-free diet has no health benefits for people who don't have a gluten allergy) to the "Stem to Root" section.
If you actually looked at what we eat for dinner in McEwen versus what we eat at Commons, we probably do eat less trans fats and more veggies at McEwen. But I would also argue that the (somewhat false) advertising at McEwen does a lot more to boost its reputation as the "healthy" dining hall than the food that is actually served there. Still, there is something to be said for placebo effect in all of this. Maybe all of the subliminal messaging actually does cause us to feel better, which motivates us to live healthier lifestyles. Who knows?
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