I've always felt a fundamental disconnect with people who say if they could, they would just pop a pill in lieu of a meal. It's not a matter of food snobbery or that they're not meeting my level of food fetishism; it's that they're openly disdaining the act of eating.
In its platonic ideal, eating should be an a act of joy, a delight to the senses, a catalyst for community and nourishment for the mind, body and soul. It doesn't have to be elaborate or expensive, and I am, without a doubt, grateful for every mouthful.
Still – if I could have popped some manner of space-age meal capsule instead of bolting down cotton-crusted, elastic-topped, charm-free cheese pizza while sprinting to catch the red-eye out of Vegas the other night, I would have done so gratefully.
I call it "maintenance food" – the quick, joyless meals you eat on your way somewhere, so you don't pass out at the wheel, the grim turkey sandwich at your desk, just about any food from a hospital or airport vending machine. I curse myself for not having had the forethought to feed myself more interestingly, and due to time, locale or cash restraints must gobble down food that's just...there.