I’ve been a food enthusiast for most of my adult life and I have even been paid regularly to write about it. I enjoy reading about the history of food, what other people are eating and of course how to make it myself. It’s especially fascinating to me how many similarities, world-wide, there are. For example, every culture seems to have their own version of a “sandwich.” I’ll leave you to ponder examples for yourself.
The interesting thing is that as a child I was often branded as a “terribly picky eater” and it was widely hoped that being subjected to school dinners in the UK – a militaristic, character building ordeal – would be “the making of me” and presumably, would sort me out once and for all.
But first, let me offer my own defence and perspective.
I’ve noticed recently that both Frasier and Niles have pulled back a bit in their communications with me; they would both immediately deny this, and yet it is true. For them, time is rushing past and they are totally absorbed in their partners, jobs and friends – and rightly so.
I understand this and well remember that the Starter Husband only communicated with his own parents at 3 pm every-few-dozen-Sundays when the flickering guilt refused to be tamped down any longer. (And to be fair, they made sure to call us weekly. But I do not envy the quality of those conversations either which basically involved asking: “How are you getting on at work?” in varying ways).
For Frasier and Niles, weekends are festive but necessarily marked by the stocking up of food, the cleaning of bathrooms and hopefully, spectacular afternoons spent in bed, followed by an ÜberEats delivery. But, because I am now getting older, not only does this lack of contact make me feel irrelevant, the whole thing is such a tired, grasping cliché. I always felt certain that someone of my own extreme coolness might be spared from such things – unlike that poor wretch Harry Chapin.
Like a fool, I believed that if I survived my sons’ teen years I would be assured of a (relatively) worry-free life which I might congratulate myself for later and bask in the afterglow of getting something right.
I now know this basking-thing will never happen.
There is not going to be a time when I do not worry.
Like other hip parents, as I foam quietly at the mouth with anxiety I have become the master of the mock-casual 3 am text:
ME: Hey, what’s up? Haven’t heard from you in a bit.
SON 1 or 2 (eventually, often days later) Right? How are you?
Which as any savvy parent knows is one of those generated, easily spotted responses (intended for those who are just way TOO busy to think of a word) and conveys slightly less than nothing.
I remember reading in a psychology book, a simple but intriguing quiz in which one presents the following scenario to a friend:
You are at a party, everyone is chatting and enjoying some food and drink. For some reason, you are called away and leave the room.
What do you think that the guests are now saying about you?
I tossed this out to Frasier and Niles when they were hanging out having a beer with me in the kitchen one airless, summer evening. Niles really struggled and couldn’t come up with much. He questioned why they would be thinking anything at all and laughed that he didn’t much care anyway as he loped across to the fridge. Frasier, on the other hand, frowned and shrugged, shifting about in his chair; but when pressed, he admitted that he thought they would most likely be thinking: Hey, who brought THAT guy?
Which made us laugh. A lot.
For myself, I wondered if there might be a universal discussion as to how particularly unattractive I was.
SPOILER ALERT: Try it yourself before reading any further: what do YOU think these guests would be saying?
A week has passed since Mother’s Day but I still wanted to blog about it because there are very few perfect days in life and this was one of them. It’s strange too because it was free of most of the things I have enjoyed in previous years, such as breakfast in bed and lacy, velvety cards with the sort of tender doggerel that can swiftly lead to a sad afternoon on the couch contemplating one’s own mortality if you’re not careful.
But there was none of that.