Hubby and I just returned from a fabulous Mediterranean cruise. A cruise, by definition, is the ultimate excuse to “pig out.” Food is everywhere. You can’t walk ten feet without bumping into something delicious, exotic, and absolutely impossible to create at home, no matter how many YouTube videos you watch.

And the impression that it’s free (although technically, you know you paid out the wazoo for the all-inclusive voyage) makes it all the more irresistible. There’s just something glorious about taking whatever you want and eating all you want, and when you’re finished, you get up and walk away. No check. No tip. No consequences.

Of course, once the cruise ended, we had to stop ourselves from walking out of the café in Athens without paying. Old habits die hard.

The Lido deck, home to the buffet where you can find anything and everything, is more of a competitive contact sport than a dining experience. In order to see and sample all the scrumptious edibles, you have to dodge the people on walkers who manage to maneuver those contraptions right between you and the good stuff with the practiced ease of NASCAR drivers. It’s incredible how fast those people can move when crab legs are involved.

Because of those seasoned pros, I missed out on a number of delectable dishes I never even saw, much less tasted. Then there are the buffet browsers who hold up the line, peering suspiciously at every tray and asking, “What’s this? Is it soft or crunchy? Does it taste like chicken?” Listen, just take something that looks good and move along, already! I have to eat NOW so I’ll be hungry for LATER.

Breakfast is where it all begins. There’s an omelet station, a pancake station, a waffle station, and a mysterious “international section” where they serve things like fish and noodles at 7 a.m. because apparently, somewhere in the world, that’s normal. Then come endless trays of bacon and sausage, constantly replenished as though the ship is powered by pork fat. I tried to eat sensibly and virtuously by grabbing a few dried apricots and grapefruit sections at the “healthy” station, where they serve mango puree and muesli. Uh, no thanks. Just put the fruit next to my waffle and bacon stack.

I barely finish breakfast when the lunch buffet opens. My stomach isn’t hungry, but my brain says, “It’s time,” even though it’s only been two hours since I last ate. After all, I know the meaning of the word “commitment.” Perhaps just a small salad. Unfortunately, the servers don’t understand the meaning of the word “small,” and the next thing I know, I’m hefting a salad bowl that could double as a hot tub for a family of four. And because of my upbringing, I know it’s a sin to waste food, so I’m forced to clean my plate. Plus, get ice cream for dessert simply because I can.

Dinner on a cruise is a full-scale event — white tablecloths, multiple courses, and waiters who encourage your worst instincts. The portions look small and elegant, but after several courses, and a never-ending bread basket, my stomach starts to protest—loudly. I know I can’t possibly eat another bite. Then the molten lava cake appears, and I’m morally obligated not to waste it.
I waddle out of the dining room, swearing I will never eat this much again. At least until tomorrow night.

Just when I think the eating day has ended, the ship unveils the midnight buffet — a spectacle of ice sculptures, chocolate fountains, and pastries that look too pretty to eat. I eat them anyway.

At this point, it’s no longer about hunger. It’s about endurance. I’ve paid for this cruise, and by golly, I’m going to get my money’s worth — even if it means rolling back to my cabin like a human croissant.

By the end of the trip, my clothes fit suspiciously tighter. I blame it on “sea swelling.” I swear I’ll eat nothing but lettuce for the rest of my life. I even start to welcome the rumble of hunger pains, which I haven’t experienced in days.

But deep down, I know I’d do it all again.

Because cruise food isn’t just about eating. It’s about the experience — the camaraderie, the culinary curiosity, and the shared delusion that calories don’t count at sea.

And although I remind myself that gluttony may be a sin, on a cruise ship, it’s a mandatory part of the itinerary.