I know those moments when I am actually full and still want to eat something else. Not because my body is asking for food, but because the thought of a particular taste appears. Something sweet, something salty, something crunchy, that one particular food I suddenly feel like having. When I look more closely, I notice how little this desire sometimes has to do with hunger. My stomach does not need anything more, but my mind remembers a taste and begins to anticipate it. At some point, this led me to a simple question that became much bigger the longer I thought about it: how often do we eat because our body needs nourishment, and how often do we eat because we want to experience a particular feeling, stimulus or familiar pleasure once again?
I experience hunger differently from appetite. Genuine hunger feels less selective to me. When I am truly hungry, many things can taste good. The desire for one very specific food, by contrast, feels much more targeted. Then it is not simply about eating something, but about exactly that taste, that texture, that brief experience. Of course, there is nothing problematic about enjoyment. Food is allowed to taste good, bring pleasure and be sensual. What interests me more is how quickly enjoyment can shift from a conscious experience into an automatic impulse. The taste has barely faded before the thought of the next bite appears. Not because the previous one was disappointing, but precisely because it was good. I find that fascinating, because in that moment it becomes clear how easily something pleasant can create the desire for repetition.
The food environment we live in today reinforces this movement in a way that would hardly have been possible in the past. We do not live in a world where food is available only when the body urgently needs it. Taste is almost constantly within reach. Sweetness, fat, salt, intense flavours and all kinds of textures surround us in an abundance that can continually stimulate desire. Many products are deliberately designed to taste especially appealing and to make us want more. For me, that does not mean we are helpless in the face of these stimuli. But I do think it matters to recognise that my desire for a particular food is not always a message from my body. It can just as easily arise from habit, memory, availability or the expectation of a pleasant feeling.
Habits in particular play a major role for me. Coffee goes with something sweet, a film goes with snacks, a certain evening goes with a certain meal. Eventually, the situation alone is enough for appetite to appear. The body may be full, but the association has already been learnt. I have noticed in myself how completely natural such patterns can feel. They barely register as decisions. The moment seems almost to call the food into existence by itself. This is not a moral question, and for me it is no reason to mistrust enjoyment. It simply shows how closely food can be tied to memories, rituals and expectations. What I call hunger may sometimes be a desire for familiarity.
It becomes even clearer to me on days when food changes my mood. After effort, something delicious can feel like a reward. When I am bored, eating provides a brief stimulus. After a difficult conversation, a familiar taste can be comforting or at least distracting for a moment. I know such situations and find nothing unusual about them. After all, from early childhood onwards, eating is about more than nourishment. It is linked with closeness, comfort, community, celebration and a sense of security. Even so, it becomes interesting when I notice that I can no longer clearly distinguish what I am actually craving. Is it food, taste, distraction, relaxation or simply something pleasant after a demanding day?
For me, the term “addiction to taste” is therefore less a medical diagnosis than an image for something I observe. I am not interested in pathologising every desire for pleasure. What I mean is more this state in which taste itself keeps calling for repetition and I barely notice whether I am actually hungry. The first bite can be intense, the second still very enjoyable, while later on what remains is often simply the movement of continuing to eat. Something within me is then no longer necessarily looking for more pleasure, but for the continuation of a stimulus. I find that especially striking. We can keep eating even when the actual taste experience has already become weaker, simply because the impulse continues.
At this point, the subject also touches on I – Your Best Liar for me. In the book, I explore the small stories through which we explain our behaviour to ourselves. I encounter such inner sentences around food too. “I need something sweet now.” “I’ve earned this.” “There’s room for a little more.” These thoughts are not automatically false, and I do not want to forbid them. What becomes interesting to me is when I start treating them as facts without examining what is actually behind them. Perhaps I do not need that taste. I want it. That small difference changes something for me because it turns an apparent need back into a choice.
The more closely I pay attention to this, the more my relationship with enjoyment changes as well. When I genuinely want something and eat it consciously, it often tastes more intense to me than when I keep reaching for more without really noticing. Surprisingly, enjoyment does not always need quantity. Sometimes it needs attention more than anything else. For me, this connects with many other areas of life. When a stimulus is constantly available, it eventually loses some of its depth and we start looking for more of it, even though that very increase may dull our perception further. This does not apply only to food. Music, entertainment, information and consumption can move in the same direction. We increase the amount and barely notice that our perception itself is becoming quieter.
Today, I am therefore less interested in whether a particular food is allowed or forbidden. Those categories have never appealed to me very much. What I find far more revealing is that brief moment when a desire appears. When I am full and still walk into the kitchen, when a particular taste suddenly enters my mind or when my hand is already reaching for something before I have even thought about it. For me, there is something very honest in that small moment. Not the question of whether I am allowed to eat, but whether I am actually hungry or looking for something entirely different. And sometimes the answer is surprisingly simple: my body is already satisfied. Only my taste still wants to keep dreaming a little longer.