That which will not be spoken

Foodie.

Something about that word bothers me.

This is what happens when you have too much coffee during the day and end up with one of those half-sleeping nights where you doze a lot, dream stupid, innocuous dreams and have some inane recurring theme running the whole show.

Last night it was the word “foodie,” which, surprisingly, is actually in Webster’s Dictionary.

Now it’s not a foodie I have a problem with. In some ways I’m probably one myself, though with two teenagers we lean toward the quantity over quality rule more often than not. I find other foodies to be nice people. The magazines tend to be a bit pretentious, but still enjoyable.

It’s the word “foodie” that tastes so bad on my tongue. It’s a silly word.

You don’t call a person who loves wine “winey.” You don’t call a person who loves dogs doggie. At least not to my face.

Foodie sounds like you start fan clubs for one of the ever-growing numbers of TV chefs on Food Network. Or that, out of all the physical requirements, you are promoting eating; as in: “My sister is an airy. She thinks breathing is the most important bodily function. But me, I’m a foodie.”

I don’t want to be called a foodie. I rather like the term “gastronome” or even the good, ol’ fashioned “gourmet.” We used to call it gourmet food. Do we now call it “foodie food?” Will real estate listings say “foodie kitchen?” Too cute; gag a maggot.

And when you keep writing about the word “foodie,” it starts to look really funny typed over and over again.

I also have a problem with the word “behemoth.”