Ready, Set, Don’t Crunch!

CRUNCH. At first glance it’s a fairly innocuous word, isn’t it? I would even go so far as to say it’s a positive word, evoking gastronomical imagery of sassy fare infused with texture making us glad we have our own teeth.

Chef Guy Fieri often uses the word “crunch” to describe some pretty killer BBQ among other dining delicacies. Yum. Good stuff.

Until it’s not. Because there’s a darker side to this onomatopoeic wonder of a word.

Come again?

It’s true. In this installment of, “Here’s how much one person can overthink something” I’m going to talk about crunch as a sound, in and of itself.

Specifically, I’m going to address how annoying it is when individuals—we’ll call them Mega Crunchers—chomp their way through crunchy food emitting a sound that is not unlike a cement mixer going full tilt.

You know who these people are. They’re a menace to our society, threatening the physical health of those around them who are vulnerable to the resultant aural damage. There’s an actual C.R.U.N.C.H. acronym named for the condition occurring when you’ve been subjected to an unruly chewer of chompy-chompy food.

Crunching

Rightfully

Unhinges

Normally

Calm

Humans

Don’t Google it. You know how people usually say, “Google it?” Yeah, don’t do that. Why? Because I made it up. That doesn’t mean it’s any less true or not a real thing, especially now that I’ve legitimized the syndrome by sharing it with you.

Oh, and it’s real, as anybody who has ever sat in a crowded movie theater next to a soda-swilling, popcorn-chomping patron can tell you.

By the time you’ve sat through those minutes-measured-in-dog-years that pass during active crunching something inside of you ignites, and you feel as though you’re going to burst into flames.

For me what usually happens during “crunch time” is my neck involuntarily snaps around toward the offensive activity in the patented, “Would you stop doing that?!” motion that sometimes works in stopping the activity. If it doesn’t I’ve been known to clear my throat and telegraph the “mom look” that’s actually quite effective. (So says my children and several hundred students.)

I posit the C.R.U.N.C.H. trigger provokes even the most peace-loving citizen into launching a full-scale hissy fit causing them to turn their yin-yang jewelry backwards, zip their sweaters over their peace sign tee shirts, and pretend to get into a different car than the electric one with the “Coexist” bumper sticker.

If this was you I saw the other day, just know it’s not your fault. The sound of crunchy food is the equivalent to being hit with the little hammer that creates the knee-jerk reaction you experience when you get a physical.

You didn’t choose to be annoyed. The sound of crunching is just that annoying.

Although popcorn and other ambiguously caloric foods may qualify as the C.R.U.N.C.H. ?culprit, it’s more frequently the healthy foods that are the real perpetrator here. This is a real “score one” situation for the manufacturers of squishy, nutrition-backward, silent foods.

What we need here is compromise, so I’m making a plea on behalf of all citizens. Mega Crunchers, for the sake of society, would you please refrain from eating your super crunch foods in enclosed public spaces?

Not sure what’s classified as a super crunch food? Now you should Google with the keywords “crunchy foods.” Then review the 20,800,000 hits by using a speed-reading method you can also find while a-Googling-you-go.

Top offenders in the crunch bunch hit parade are snap peas—I mean, c’mon, “snap” is right there in the name, crudités—the word itself crunches when you say it—and carrots.

Carrots are “the” crunchy food garnering the attention of my husband who normally enjoys the ability to accept high-decibel-level noise due to his life-long status as a rock ‘n’ roll musician.

Let someone—and this someone is usually moi—fire up a carrot, and this habitually amiable man turns into a high-frequency detecting, cranky Chihuahua, exhibiting the same combative tendencies. With my first snap-bite his ears go up, his eyes lock onto mine, and he launches the detonation sequence on his patented death ray glare.

Thus, I’ve been known to transport a cellophaned bag of luscious baby carrots into the bathroom, just so I can enjoy them in a judgment-free zone where comments like, “Are you about done with those?” and “How many are in that bag anyway?” don’t machine gun away at me every three seconds, harshing my carotene mellow.

The real problem with C.R.U.N.C.H. is you don’t seem to know you’re doing it until someone helpfully points it out. So, um, are you about done with that apple?

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