“I’d like the spinach salad,” I say, quickly scanning the menu description for offensive ingredients. “Without the tomatoes and the croutons,” I add.
The waiter fakes a smile. “Yah,” he says, Boston accent leaking through the h. The New England summer sun sprinkles light on our table through the oak trees above as I set my menu aside.
“Oh,” I add. “And can you put the salad dressing on the side?”
My sister, a hotel school grad and ex-restaurant manager, shifts in her chair and re-opens her menu, shielding her expression. Our waiter turns his attention toward her.
“Instead of the chicken,” I say. “Do you have tofu?”
“Tofu?” the waiter says, as if I have asked for frog brains or turtle poop to be sprinkled on my salad.
I guess not.
“Chicken is fine,” I say. “And a cranberry juice with a splash of club soda and a lime.”
The waiter chews on his lower lip and nods. “We have a cranberry spahklah drink that’s already soda and cranberry mixed togetha,” he offers.
“This sparkler drink, does it have sugar?” I ask.
My sister leans toward me, and smiles apologetically at the waiter. She looks like she wants to shove me under the table, or perhaps bop me over the head with the whiffle bat she used on me periodically when we were in grammar school.
“Maybe I could try a sample,” I say. “I’ll bet it has sugar in it.”
The waiter squints at me.
“I’m sorry,” my sister says to him. “She can’t help it. She’s from Los Angeles.”
*****
“Oh my God!” the hostess of the holiday party says to a cluster of us standing by the food table in her dining room in West Hollywood. “All three of you look fabulous! So thin! What’s the story?”
“Blood type diet,” I say, picking up a broccoli floret. “I lost ten pounds.”
“Me too,” the woman next to me in a tiny black velvet skirt adds. “I’m an O. No wheat. Low carbs.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” the third woman says as the hostess nods intently. “I’m A. I feel so good after getting rid of red meat. I eat only soy products and rice pasta.”
My friend Jo, in from Germany, snorts at us as she spreads Brie on a piece of sourdough bread.
“You know what Julia Child says?” she asks.
We turn toward her, curious.
“You Americans!” she exhales heavily in a weird Euro accent, drawing in the deep gasping breaths so unique to Ms. Child. Jo swigs a big gulp of her white wine to enhance the imitation. “I’ve never met people,” she breathes loudly, “so afraid of their food!”
*****
“No, no, no,” my buddy Brad the personal trainer barks at our out of shape friend Bill, slapping Bill’s hand away from the bread basket on the table in the café, then handing the full basket back to the busboy. “Bread is evil.
*****
I watch the “Raid Galoises” on the Outdoor Life Network. It’s Europe’s version of our Eco-Challenge, an event where handfuls of sicko athletes and ex-Marines slog through the jungle, rappel over waterfalls, mountain bike through rivers and run hundreds of miles through the desert consecutively without sleep.
The cameras show the American team in camp: huddled over maps and compasses, doing calf stretches, eating specially formulated Power bar-type fuel, strategizing, gulping electrolyte-rich energy drinks.
Now we pan over to the French camp: lounging lazily, chewing forkfuls of bloody steak, sipping red wine, blowing smoke from European cigarettes.
Ha! I think. Those Americans will have the whole health/fitness/diet/workout thing engineered and wired. The French are smoking for God’s sake! I cozy down with some original Styrofoam flavor rice cakes to watch the Americans kick ass.
An hour later, seventeen hours of footage having been condensed, I watch in amazement as the French cruise across the finish line in first place, looking fresh and rested. The Americans have wrenched an ankle. Someone is in tears.
*****
In the book “The Only Diet There Is,” author Sondra Ray suggests that our beliefs about food determine the effect it will have on our bodies. In other words, if we believe Twinkies will make us fat, they will. Or if we think chicken soup will help a cold, it does. I consider the winning French team, my friend Jo and Julia Child, and I wonder, am I afraid of my food?
I avoid alcohol, sugar, chocolate, and caffeine, not for fat purposes but because I fear them to be the culprit for 3 a.m. hysterical fights with what are now ex-boyfriends. I don’t drink diet soda because I’m afraid it causes breast cancer. I avoid carbohydrates like bread and pasta to stay thin, and dairy products for reasons I cannot recall. I’ve been on the PMS diet, the Blood Type Diet, and Weight Watchers twice. On a hike in Bryce Canyon during my most anti-carb obsessed phase, I ended up in an emergency room in rural Utah with heatstroke and an IV in my arm due to eating only dry tuna wrapped in lettuce.
While claiming the more flattering excuse of health reasons for my behavior, between myself and the mirror, I know vanity and body image are closer to the truth. But how much control is too much? Are there only two choices? Bread obsessed fitness girl or undisciplined, out of breath, satisfied whale?
I begin wondering if the idea of a connection between our thoughts and what we eat has merit. Maybe the custom of praying over food, setting the intention that whatever it is will be healing and healthy makes sense. Perhaps sugar in reasonable doses might not cause emotional meltdowns. Maybe bread with that tuna would give my muscles something to burn for a change. Maybe a handful of pretzels wouldn’t cause an instant downward slide into brownies and vanilla ice cream hell. Maybe.
*****
My sister and I meet in Florida for a long weekend for our grandmother’s ninetieth birthday. We sneak off one night together for dinner on an outdoor patio. The waiter approaches.
“Here we go,” my sister says into her napkin, crossing one flip-flopped foot across the opposite thigh.
He hands each of us menus and asks for our drink orders.
I quickly scan the wine and beer list, sucking in a deep breath.
“I’ll bet they don’t have cranberry juice,” my sister says, eyeing the waiter sympathetically.
“I’ll have a Foster’s beer!” I blurt out a little too loudly, like someone wearing headphones.
My sister looks at me.
“I’ll have an Amstel Light,” she tells the waiter, watching me sideways, foot jiggling the dangling flip-flop. Perhaps she is thinking I am not aware of the calories a Foster’s contains, or that an alien has replaced me at our table.
I look over the menu like a bettor studying the sheets at the race-track. The waiter walks away to get our drinks.
“And an order of fried mozzarella sticks!” I yell at his back.
My sister leans toward me in a quick sudden motion, mouth open, and pulls her chair closer into the table. Fried mozzarella sticks were our favorite in college after a hearty night of drinking. She smiles at me.
The waiter places our beers on the table.
“Cheers, mate,” my sister says in a mock Australian accent.
“Cheers,” I say.
The beer is fine - not as cold as it could be. But the mozzarella sticks have the perfect crunchy fried breading, and the strings of warm cheese wrap around my tongue as I bite down. I love cheese.
“Mmhmh,” I say to my sister.
“Mmhmh,” she says.
I make it through half the beer and two fried cheese sticks before my health conscience kicks in. My Capri pants feel tighter already and I’m afraid I’ll be hung-over tomorrow. But it’s a baby step toward minimizing my obsession with the perfect diet, the perfect body, the perfect health program.
In the ensuing months, I take more baby steps away from food fear. I eat Danish Havarti cheese at a party, and popcorn at the movie theatre – but without butter. Maybe a beer and a few chicken wings at a bar with friends, or a few too many tortilla chips with a veggie burrito.
The new guy I’m seeing invites me to his family’s home for Christmas dinner where they serve (horrors!) ham. But I eat it, grateful we pray over the food beforehand, giving me a chance to practice setting my intention that one slice of ham can be healing and healthy. I delightedly discover that my blood pressure does not arc up immediately through the vaulted ceiling.
I shy away from food conversations with girlfriends who go psychotic to find themselves wearing size two jeans instead of size zero. I try to listen to my intuition, integrating what makes sense from the books and articles I’ve read rather than dogmatically applying new food theories without question. I’ll never be able to convince myself a Snickers bar isn’t poison, but an occasional burger and fries tastes pretty satisfying, and seems to have no ill effect.
It may be too soon for major pronouncements, but I think listening to myself and taking a more balanced approach toward eating gives me more energy for non-food related thoughts. My body feels stronger, and there have been no recent carbohydrate deficiency induced trips to the ER. At the very least when dining with my sister, I’m sparing myself the whiffle bat.
published in 2002 in Take Two - They're Small Anthology
copyright 2003 Ellen Nordberg . all rights reserved .
ENordberg@mindspring.com