My mother hates food, which is something I’ve said before. She thinks I want to blame her for everything, but the only thing she’s responsible for is this gut I’m sporting. Call it reactionary. And you should see my brother, poor thing. It’s no reward for being her favorite.
My mother would have made an excellent purser, one more career denied. Our house was full of food, but we weren’t allowed to eat it. For some reason, crackers went into the basement instead of the cupboard, where they adopted some funny tastes down there in the dark. Fresh meat went into the freezer, from which a deeply frozen piece of something else was extracted, defrosted, and eaten so there was room for the fresh piece, which would emerge sometime in the future, like a time capsule of what was being eaten way back when.
I was sitting at her table and asked for mayonnaise. Luckily, I looked at the date, which began with 19. I pointed out who was president before spreading it further. I just opened it, she answered. The dates are there for a reason, I said. This condiment was made before the war on terror. They’re lying, she answered. They always lie. They just put those dates on there so you’ll buy more mayonnaise.
My wife loves food and makes her own mayo, but she’s like a broomstick, which in Italy is no compliment. But she never thinks about food unless she’s hungry, which isn’t true for Americans, who think about food all the time. I saw a German mother confront two American kids in a pool at a hotel where I stay, which is what I get for being there in August. The kids were standing in the water, eating ice cream. The German lady was furious. Why are you eating in the pool? she demanded. Because we’re hungry, they answered. The German lady was livid. How can you possibly be hungry? Look at you, she said. This brought over the American mother, no small specimen herself, who was ready with an explanation. They eat a lot, she said, even if they just ate.
This confirmed a theory for my wife, who contends that the reason we eat so much is because we’re never fed properly in the first place. We tend not to overeat but to dwell on it constantly, doling it out by the calorie, always wanting more. We simply don’t know how to eat, which art largely involves doing the opposite of what we do.
Italians skip breakfast, shop when they’re hungry, eat when they’re starving, gorge, feel sick, and sleep on a full stomach. Dinner is a form of punishment after eating so much at lunch, so they barely touch it. They make themselves disgusted with food, swearing off the stuff by the time they’re ready for bed, which usually involves some kind of purgative. I love a good bicarbonate of soda with Ferrarelle and fresh lemon. By lunchtime the next day, you’re ready to eat all over again.
