I met a woman today who was ‘indifferent about food’.

It was in the kitchen area at work. My colleagues and I were gushing about Julia’s win last night. Her ears pricked up when we mentioned the ‘M’ word.

‘oh, reality tv. I hate that.’

‘yeah, me too’ (- that’s a lie. I frickin loved the biggest loser -) ‘but it’s masterchef! finally one I can get into!’

‘oh really?’ she squinted, ‘I couldn’t care less. I’m indifferent about food.’

There was some chat after that. About an egg. Maybe. To be honest it hardly went in. Indifferent? Our team may have its crazy moments against food (we’re all on a diet of some sort – south beach, raw fruit, almonds, cottage cheese at 10.30 - Jamie) and we can rarely agree to a lunch location given everyone’s palate peccadillos. But this was clearly something else entirely. I knew they existed, but in my very own workplace? On level 18??

I surveyed The Indifferent One critically (couldn’t help it), and thought (uncharitably) ‘yeah. she looks like someone who doesn’t really get food’.

Ouch.

As I sit here munching on killer pizza, watching my third episode of masterchef (for today) I am hardly indifferent about food. Harris Farm is my Playboy mansion. I carry the Good Food guide with me on the bus (when it’s not been bumped by a text book). I check eat-tori religiously every Wednesday – when she has a civilised day off devoted to writing. I debate the merits of soy milk brands with…pretty much anyone (Sun Gold - yes. Bon Soy - no. Vitasoy - only on muesli. So Good - only in smoothies). If we’re sketching me here in this space – and we are – food and all things foodie provide a (little too) solid silhouette.

I blame my media days. We weren’t paid much cash, but we were paid in perks – free mags, tickets, cosmetics, parties. Stuff. And the evidence is all around. Our beach towels are gifts of SBS and AdShel. Our kitchen is stocked with platters from Sunday Life, salad servers care of Fairfax, knives thanks to Donna Hay. My family’s Christmas gifts one year were sponsored entirely by the media industry.

But none of these freebies compared with the lunches. Every Friday (and Thursday if you were lucky) you were taken to a new Sydney eatery for the price of some sparkling conversation and consideration in your next media buy. Sure, we had to make small talk with the regional newspaper reps occasionally, but it was worth it to go to places like Longgrain, the Boathouse, Quay and Guillaume at Bennelong. Places we’d never heard of (then) and had no hope of affording ourselves. So we did what was expected and topped up our salaries with cocktails, x-course meals, seafood, cheese plates, and many, many bottles of vino.

I developed an opinion on scallops. And cauliflower. And their pairing. Learnt the art of choosing the wine (when someone else is paying). Sprang fickly between preferences for olive oil or butter with bread, balsamic or sea salt.

Fridays at the office were long and lonesome if you weren’t out on a jaunt. And – we were led to believe – those years of eating were nothing like ‘the good old days’, when no one came back sober. When no one came back at all.

We started to get picky. Not Coast again! we’d shriek. He promised us Aria! we’d cry. Tony had a choice of location once, and blew it, much to the loud dismay of his boss. [Amongst my girls, the temple of love is still affectionately named ‘Chinta-fcking-Ria Tony!?’ in honour of her incredible outburst.] An invitation to anywhere on King St Wharf revealed a lack of imagination, Golden Century was just plain cheap, and to invite only the managers was an epic fail - sure to win you no friends.

Jeez we were bitches. No wonder we all got fat.

From my seat in the public service right now, it all feels very, very far away. There’s not even a free tea bag to be found in my office. Not a biscuit jar. Not a drop of milk, soy or otherwise.

I don’t miss the long hours, crappy work and (most of) the people.

But god, I do miss the food.