All the times I ate too much to keep other people happy
When we were growing up, forcing food on people was the height of affection. "Don't be shy and eat less!" hosts would say. I can't count the number of times I ate MORE because I was shy....too shy to stop people from dumping another helping of something (that was delicious two helpings ago) on my plate, and too well-trained in not wasting food to leave it there untouched. An aunt of my father's apparently told an over-full guest, who refused another piece of fish, "you don't have to swallow it, just chew it and spit it out." That an otherwise refined lady would make such a gross (in more ways than one) statement just serves to illustrate how deeply ingrained it was, this need to show love through over-feeding.
Thankfully, those days are behind us. Most party givers nowadays just put out the food as a buffet and let people serve themselves. And yet, on more than one occasion, I've found myself serving myself more and more helpings, usually to make up for a recalcitrant dining companion (namely, my husband) who refuses to eat bland food or sea food or very garlicky food or pasta, no matter how painstakingly cooked or lovingly served. Looking into the hopeful faces of hosts, eagerly watching to see our reaction, I haven't had the heart to not eat. One time it was homemade ravioli, cooked by an Italian lady no less, authentic stuff! But no, it was "pasta". Another time it was a delicately seasoned zuchhini soup. But that came under the heading "bland".
The most challenging occasion was the time I had to eat for three reluctant eaters, my husband and his parents. Our Chinese aunt had taken us to a dim sum place as a special treat. I could see her face fall as one guest after another refused the delicious stuffed and fried / steamed dumplings, buns and pastries and succulent barbecued morsels of meat. "I'll have one more", I said brightly (and desperately) to everything that was offered up. The atmosphere was thick with disappointment on one side and discomfort on the other as I tried to step valiantly into the breach with false cheerfulness. The food was wonderful but I was too tense to enjoy it. It was one of the longest meals I've ever had.
Another time we went to meet my old friend Dana in a park in Iowa. Dana, who dives headlong into whatever he's interested in at that point, was taking a break from nursing (which had followed his stint as a graduate student in chemical engineering) and was totally into organic farming, chickens and all. "We'll have supper in the park", Dana said on the phone, "I'll cook chicken soup for you!" He showed up at the park completely equipped with supplies needed to build a fire and cook and eat the freshly slaughtered chicken from his farm. (It reminded me of all the times, when we were grad students, that he took us to a riverside park to roast potatoes in a camp fire and later lie on the bridge looking at the stars. Dana was the one who used to pack the firewood, the potatoes, utensils, blanket to lay on the bridge; the rest of us would just tag along.) The fresh soup, cooked on the campfire with onions, carrots and herbs, was delicious but my kids, three and six, had little stomachs and their dad found the soup "bland". So it was totally up to me to do justice to the truly made-from-scratch, fresh, nutritious, flavorful soup, enthusiastically prepared by my old friend that I was meeting after years. So I kept eating and eating and eating. Just as well that I did - it's been twenty years and I haven't met Dana since.
Well, my spouse finally got his revenge after years of my disdaining his "pickiness" and claiming that I "eat everything". He came home excited one day because he found rooibos or bush tea in Trader Joe's. He knew about my fondness for the traditionally built Botswana detective Mma Ramotswe and thought I might enjoy her favourite drink. (She doesn't really do that much detecting and has plenty of time to sit in her office drinking numerous cups of bush tea with her secretary Mma Makutsi, who famously graduated with 97% from Botswana secretarial college. Mma Ramotswe loves bush tea so much that it took Mma Makutsi many years to pick up her courage and confess that she can't stand it and she wants to drink regular tea instead.) He made two cups for the two of us, and, to my utter consternation and chagrin, blithely drank it all while I could not handle more than a sip! The reddish liquid stank (it seemed to me of wild lion or some other wild beast) and I wanted to rinse out my mouth. Of course he has never let me forget that episode and, to be fair, after telling so many food stories about him - I absolutely deserve it.
Thankfully, those days are behind us. Most party givers nowadays just put out the food as a buffet and let people serve themselves. And yet, on more than one occasion, I've found myself serving myself more and more helpings, usually to make up for a recalcitrant dining companion (namely, my husband) who refuses to eat bland food or sea food or very garlicky food or pasta, no matter how painstakingly cooked or lovingly served. Looking into the hopeful faces of hosts, eagerly watching to see our reaction, I haven't had the heart to not eat. One time it was homemade ravioli, cooked by an Italian lady no less, authentic stuff! But no, it was "pasta". Another time it was a delicately seasoned zuchhini soup. But that came under the heading "bland".
The most challenging occasion was the time I had to eat for three reluctant eaters, my husband and his parents. Our Chinese aunt had taken us to a dim sum place as a special treat. I could see her face fall as one guest after another refused the delicious stuffed and fried / steamed dumplings, buns and pastries and succulent barbecued morsels of meat. "I'll have one more", I said brightly (and desperately) to everything that was offered up. The atmosphere was thick with disappointment on one side and discomfort on the other as I tried to step valiantly into the breach with false cheerfulness. The food was wonderful but I was too tense to enjoy it. It was one of the longest meals I've ever had.
Another time we went to meet my old friend Dana in a park in Iowa. Dana, who dives headlong into whatever he's interested in at that point, was taking a break from nursing (which had followed his stint as a graduate student in chemical engineering) and was totally into organic farming, chickens and all. "We'll have supper in the park", Dana said on the phone, "I'll cook chicken soup for you!" He showed up at the park completely equipped with supplies needed to build a fire and cook and eat the freshly slaughtered chicken from his farm. (It reminded me of all the times, when we were grad students, that he took us to a riverside park to roast potatoes in a camp fire and later lie on the bridge looking at the stars. Dana was the one who used to pack the firewood, the potatoes, utensils, blanket to lay on the bridge; the rest of us would just tag along.) The fresh soup, cooked on the campfire with onions, carrots and herbs, was delicious but my kids, three and six, had little stomachs and their dad found the soup "bland". So it was totally up to me to do justice to the truly made-from-scratch, fresh, nutritious, flavorful soup, enthusiastically prepared by my old friend that I was meeting after years. So I kept eating and eating and eating. Just as well that I did - it's been twenty years and I haven't met Dana since.
Well, my spouse finally got his revenge after years of my disdaining his "pickiness" and claiming that I "eat everything". He came home excited one day because he found rooibos or bush tea in Trader Joe's. He knew about my fondness for the traditionally built Botswana detective Mma Ramotswe and thought I might enjoy her favourite drink. (She doesn't really do that much detecting and has plenty of time to sit in her office drinking numerous cups of bush tea with her secretary Mma Makutsi, who famously graduated with 97% from Botswana secretarial college. Mma Ramotswe loves bush tea so much that it took Mma Makutsi many years to pick up her courage and confess that she can't stand it and she wants to drink regular tea instead.) He made two cups for the two of us, and, to my utter consternation and chagrin, blithely drank it all while I could not handle more than a sip! The reddish liquid stank (it seemed to me of wild lion or some other wild beast) and I wanted to rinse out my mouth. Of course he has never let me forget that episode and, to be fair, after telling so many food stories about him - I absolutely deserve it.
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