Appetite Studies: Food Science

This piece is part of a series that responds to the theme of the 2025 Cleveland Humanities Festival: “Appetite.”


Food Science


The genius would be like—do you know the two

ways to eat a beer glass? Like that was a situation

we were often in. He’d learned it from Jasper Gallon.

They used to run a lab. You never know how life

will work out, the genius said. Who’d have thought

that two guys who were roommates at the same elite

university would one day work together at that same

elite university. The first day of the seminar,

he had us arrange ourselves by height. A lesson

about systolic and diastolic pressure. This was at the Institute

of Food. He was famous for localization. Like how

Doritos in Mexico are thicker. He got it down

to the county. That was also with chips. For example,

how crushed? How crushed should they be? Knox

County, for instance. They like them crushed.

Basically a powder. Quaffable. “It’s finally OK to drink

and drive…chips.” That was the billboard.

And the gnarled little knobs, those excrescences

that sometimes slip through the fryer? Some places

love them. It feels like a prize. One summer,

he had us drive back and forth from Fremont

County, Colorado, to Custer County. Counties

with the most proximal change, vis a vis chip preference.

What they call an ecotone. It felt like a different world,

opening a bag of chips in Westcliffe, after a morning

in Galena. The first way, he said, is you embed 

the pieces in your gums. You don’t really eat it. 

It looks like you do. He was a very good teacher.

He could make anybody cry. He’d glower something like,

“It seems like you’re still afraid of something.” And

you’d cry. But then he got distracted by politics. He was mad 

that Jasper, known for being awkward/obnoxious, 

had been awkward/obnoxious, and then felt awkward.

He and the genius blamed “diversity.” The logic

was hard to follow. They supported legislation

that would limit strikes, protest, equity, protections

for immigrants, trans rights at places less privileged

than they’d ever worked. They were the real victims.

They worked harder than anyone. They were the smartest

boys. We never learned the second way. I was afraid

we wouldn’t get to my reading response. He once 

told us an airbag can break your nose and save you, 

like in a crash, so, here, let me break your nose.

Zach Savich

Zach Savich is the author of seven collections of poetry, including Momently (Black Ocean, 2024), and several chapbooks, limited-edition volumes, and books of prose. His latest books are the text for performance A Field of Telephones (53rd State, 2025) and the chapbook of poetry Clothespins, Tarps, and Co. (antiphony, 2025). His work has received the Iowa Poetry Prize, the Colorado Prize for Poetry, the CSU Poetry Center’s Open Book Award, and other honors, including residencies from the Vermont Studio Center, ArtPark, and the Chautauqua Institution. His writing has appeared in journals and anthologies including American Poetry Review, Best New Poets, Boston Review, Georgia Review, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Savich teaches at the Cleveland Institute of Art and serves as co-editor of Rescue Press’s Open Prose Series. 

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