Native Virtues and Pernicious Vices

I have always tried to maintain dinner in our house as a mandatory ritual. I travel frequently, and my eldest son is in college and also has a job, frequently arriving late from work. I have learned that my family’s presence quickly evaporates due to the Internet, sleepovers, late work and assorted other events.

A difficult comedy has recently arisen from this ritual. We are, to put it plainly, a rather fat family . . . all except the youngest newcomer who is six years old. The evening ritual is now carefully controlled by low calorie portions and strange new vegetable combinations. Since hunger prevails at this hour, it is disconcerting to see the youngest among us ignoring his ample portions of baked potato with sour cream, broiled chicken and whole milk. In fact, all this little fellow ever seems to do at dinner is fidget and tease his brothers.

Dad barks frequently, almost with metronome rhythm, for him to quit elbowing his brother and eat his food . . . all of it. The rest of us sit around him like so many wildebeasts watching the lion take a nap by the water hole. Ah yes, this wicked little fellow is not fat, not interested in food and completely oblivious to the rigors of diet and exercise. He does chin ups on my forearm, can dangle with one hand from the banister, runs everywhere and seems to have 86 ribs.

I still have two high school track records for the 220 and 440 and the guy who could beat me in the mile was six foot six. My wife was on the high school gymnastic team and was as svelte as a professional dancer. What could cause us to get fat?

I don’t really keep up with these things, but diets seem as manifold as the weeds in my lawn these days. We chose the one we are on because it was supposed to be merciful and quick and because our neighbors tried it first. “Merciful” in this case is a word gauged against concentration camp victims and lifeboat survivors. My wife and I are both chefs of significant calibre, my wife moreso than I, and every hour in the kitchen is will against memory . . . a mental game at best.

Mental games not withstanding, the difficulty of savoring a cucumber against the memory of BBQ ribs and potato salad is rapidly compounded by the sight of your youngster ignoring these fine vices during the family meal.

May the skinny remain so, and the fat . . .

find peace and safety in the virtuous glycemic index of life.

Milton