Diet

My father is obese. So, when my sister and I were growing up, we were either on his diet or we were off his diet. It was Melba toast and low fat cheese or pounds of bacon and crepes dripping with butter, sugar and cinnamon.

Because the gods loved us a little, my sister and I had my mother’s physique. She’s slender and we were skinny beanpoles that could take the gallons of ice cream, homemade donuts, and coca cola straight out of the can.

Food in the 1970s in Alaska formed my eating habits as well. And, because the gods loved us only a little, money was short so my mom had to stretch the family budget. One staple was pork chop and brown rice. Cheap cuts of pork chops surrounded by rice and bullion to soften the meat with simmering white rice that turned brown from the broth. It’s still one of my favorites. How many gorgeous, juicy, expensive pork chops have I toughened up cooking in a stew of bullion? Plenty.

I bring up my history of food because I promised myself that I would never be on another person’s diet again. And, while my partner isn’t heavy by any means, the Prussian/Irish stock shows up now and then in a few extra pounds. One of the things I love about my partner is that there is no diet talk and no action taken. There may be less eating, but no drastic change in the pantry. There is one exception. Peanut butter. You know the kind of peanut butter I’m talking about with the oil on top. My partner dumps most of the oil out so that you end up with peanut paste. It’s disgusting and you have to be Arnold Schwarzenegger to dig it out of the jar and once you get it out you don’t want to eat it and you’ve bent your knife.

As I write this, I’m jumping up to take a bite of a toasted bagel with honey and peanut butter. It's a pain to fit in eating with everything else. That’s a habit I share with Joyce Carole Oats who said in her journal that she wished she didn’t have to waste time eating when she could be reading or writing. Brava!
Besides, I got to the peanut butter jar first.