When I was very young, my dad was a chain smoker, and he drank alcohol daily. I learned to play pool at the age of 8 in the Moose Lodge while my dad drank and smoked at the bar, and my mom watched over me at a nearby table. I knew enough to ask the barmaid or the red-painted quarters to put in the jukebox.
When I was a young teenager, my dad gave up smoking and drinking. He did this by going cold turkey. It worked. I remember he made a bet with my brother-in-law, and my brother-in-law wasn’t able to successfully quit smoking, but my dad did.
He was able to control his addictions to alcohol and nicotine by severing them. I don’t know if the phantom foot of his addictions ever itched, but I do know he never scratched.
After years of being alcohol-free, a doctor suggested to my dad that a shot of whiskey a day would be good for his heart. My dad responded that he had never been able to drink just one.
But you can’t go cold turkey with food.
My dad enjoyed good food. He savored the flavors. He would eat things I would never even consider like frog legs. We would drive for miles to eat in a restaurant in Luzurne that had an all-you-can-eat froglegs buffet on Friday nights. My dad would object when I would order a hamburger and fries. “Get something you don’t eat at home,” he would tell me. I would order the salad bar, and I would delight in the wide range of choices.
The salad bar wasn’t what my dad meant.
When we lived in Florida, we’d sit in a restaurant on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and my parents would eat fresh seafood. I would refuse to try the shrimp. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. I was feeling a little adventurous.
Today, I read several poems that talked about cooking. One, in particular, sounded almost pornographic as the author described pouring the oil in the pan and searing the whatever it was she was searing. What is searing anyway? The description of the eating became even more vivid with flavors bursting.
And I realize I am missing something. I do not talk about or think about food this way. It is not a sensual experience for me.
I have a friend who can get very animated and offer detail after detail as she describes how she cooks something. I cannot comprehend her culinary comments.
I eat because I’m hungry, or people around me or eating. If left on my own, I would forget to eat. I do not enjoy cooking. I enjoy socializing more than eating when I dine out. Eating is something I have to do.
When I do get a hankering for something, it is usually pretty tame. The other night I wanted something to drink with a bit of a kick. I was upset we were out of orange juice because it would have been perfect. Just a plain glass of orange juice.
When I cook, I rarely add spices. I never add salt to my food. If I use ketchup to eat my fries, the fries weren’t that very good to begin with. I prefer my hot dogs plain.
So if I am not obsessed with food, and my taste buds are fairly bland, how did I end up overweight to begin with?
