There are people who are so deeply soaked in their own vat of opinion that they can't see when they're spouting nonsense. One of the more blatant examples comes with a well-meaning but ridiculous little article "5 Foods to Eat When You're Depressed" on a food-nanny site.
Their five foods? 1) Omelet, 2) Nuts and seeds, 3) Cold-water fish, 4) Ancient grains, 5) Green tea.
What utter bullshit. Those foods don't fight depression. They cause it.
Well, at least they didn't throw in the obligatory broccoli. Food nannies have a kink for broccoli. They seem to think that it cures pimples and the common cold and will stave off any health problem imaginable, including death from old age or from being slammed with a gazillion volts from a lightning bolt. Of course that all ignores the simple fact that broccoli is a vile thing, a nasty thing, green brain-like excrescences that reek of skunk no matter how carefully you try to cook the skunkiness out. Can't be done: broccoli isn't food. It's penance.
That list of depression foods? Forget it. Those aren't the foods you eat to help you with depression, kiddo. Not by a long shot. Not by a mile. Not by your Aunt Fanny's shin plasters.
I recommend three foods for fighting depression. I can attest to their usefulness; they've gotten me out of many a funk.
First, and foremost: ice cream. Ice cream isn't really food at all. It's medicene. There is nothing more mood-enhancing than ice cream. In a cone, in a bowl, just right out of the container, ice cream is proof that there is Somebody Up There Who Loves Us, even if "somebody", "up", and "there" are all mental frameworks and devoid of actual physical reality. A world in which ice cream is possible can never be altogether bad.
Second: booze. Consider combining the booze with item #1. Bourbon on vanilla ice cream with a dab of whipped cream, some nuts, and a cherry. Kahlua liqueur on chocolate ice cream, or Kahlua on Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia. (Now there's a match made in heaven.) Or Drambuie on Cookies 'n' Cream. Or just a good stiff drink, dammit—a well-made Manhattan with Maker's Mark whiskey, a whisk of sweet vermouth, a splash of either Angostura's bitters or, if you're feeling a bit more adventurous, a dab of Peychaud's. Spend a bit more time in the kitchen and whip up a Sidecar. Go for classic and make yourself a Sazerac. Or just pop some Scotch in a glass and go to it. But have a drink. Or two. Three or more, at your own risk.
Third: spaghetti and meat balls, or lasagne, or pot roast, or chicken fried steak with pan gravy and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. Gooey stuff that we're all supposed to view with caution thanks to perceived potential for arterial sludge, waistline expansion, and bombastic flatulence. Screw that. You're depressed. You need something to make you happy.
Think about it: a big sizzly fried chicken breast, mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, a steaming fresh biscuit with butter, capped off with a Bourbon-and-branch-water and a hot fudge sundae.
If you can have that for dinner and remain depressed (or awake) afterwards, then you don't need seeds or fish or tea or grains or eggs. You need Xanax.
You're down in the dumps: a handful of stupid seeds, or hedonistic splendor?
