My father, Jack, was the world's champion nosher. He could polish off a box of mallomars that no one else even knew was in the house. He could take care of a pint of ice cream in one sitting. He was, you might say, chubby.
He said that he was fat. He pulled no punches, did Jack. I once saw his third grade class picture and when I asked which one he was, he said it was easy to tell because he was always the fattest little boy in class. This must have bothered him, even as a child, although it would not have bothered his mother. To her, saying to someone "You look fat!" was a compliment. It meant "You're healthy." It meant you weren't going to die of starvation, like she saw people do all around her when she was a girl in Latvia.
She was certainly a wonderful cook, but a special "treat" meal for her children might be heaping plates of mashed potatoes with lots of butter and milk. Hence, a chubby Jack and two chubby sisters for Jack.
Where am I going with this? Why am I even daring to touch this subject when I know that there are so many who struggle with this issue every day of their lives? I don't, though I have other issues, to be sure. I'm mostly thinking out loud, or, on screen. No hurt intended. I'm not complaining. I'm wondering. And I'll probably end up being silly anyway.
My mother, because she was always skinny, was considered sickly as a child by her own European parents. She had thin legs and arms and no behind at all, although she did later come up with the large chestal region that remains a family characteristic to this day. My sister and I were likewise small children. We didn't eat, especially. I never liked meat at all. My father used to make me sit at the table until I'd cleaned my plate, while I prayed for a dog to eat the scraps, like in The Little Rascals.
When I was 18, I weighed about 105 pounds. When I was 20, the chest genes kicked in and I went up to 117, which I weighed when I was married. My sister was an inch shorter and ten pounds lighter.
Once, back around then, we heard on the news somewhere the words "fat collapse." We didn't know what it really meant -- still don't -- but we decided that this is what would happen to us one day when our DNA decided to shift from Shirl mode into Jack.
Then we had babies. We each gained 45 pounds with each pregnancy. Lots of it came off -- each baby weighed 7 pounds or so, anyway -- but not all, of course. The rest of it, as everyone knows, comes on gradually.
Everyone knows but us. I mean, we know now, of course, but just as people who are overweight as children and then lose it as adults see themselves forever as fat, somewhere in the back of my head (certainly not in my mirror) I think of myself as small. Because I always was small. Not just skinny, I never was really skinny. When I was 18, I looked 18, so that was good. Even then I had an almost 30" waist, so it's not like I was reed-thin ever.
So now I'm fifty, I've got the menopause weight that's never going away, and the numbers are meaningless anyway. My posture is terrible, as always, and the front of me is starting to look like I did somewhere around my fourth or fifth month along.
Is there a solution? Should there be? Certainly I could exercise, and it's a nice thought, but we all know that isn't exactly going to happen. I could eat less, but I don't actually eat a lot. What I do eat is crap, so I suppose I could adjust that, maybe. Maybe.
So this afternoon, the Sibs and I (and she's looking more like fifth or sixth month these days, still an inch shorter than I am and about five pounds up) were at the supermarket, picking up some items, and what should I see in the freezer, but this:
It's a Sara Lee Butter Streusel Cake.
It's the Best. Cake. Ever.
These cakes have not been sold in any local supermarket for maybe 20 years. How do I know that? You know how I know. I've been looking. It was one of Jack's favorite noshes. I could eat a lot of these back in the day, when I lived at home before I was married. Back when I could eat anything at all, anything, and it had no effect on me whatsoever.
So here, we're walking around the supermarket picking up low-fat this and tasteless that and I find these in the freezer case and practically have a religious experience right there and I bought two of them. One is in my own freezer, awaiting that special moment that I can share this joy with my children, who have never known The Butter Streusel Cake. The other is about 1/4 gone. I did, after all, have to wait for it to defrost a bit.
What am I saying here? That it's now my job to be the nosher, since my father is gone? Well, no, that's just stupid. I don't even know what I'm saying. I'm thinking, wondering. It's very complex, this body image/weight/childhood/memories/happiness/growing up/figuring out who you are connection.Very.
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I'm watching 60 Minutes
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