Tonight, friends and I ate at Daddy’s, a local “upscale Cajun seafood dive.” I guess that sounds a bit of a paradox, but there are all types of dives when you live in a resort town, and Daddy’s just happens to be one of those on the upper end of the scale—clean, but tacky, moderately priced with an assortment of condiments on the table at all times and locals at the bar.
Most of the servers wear shirts that read, “Who’s your Daddy?” Tonight however, our server, a bulging, round-faced young woman, was sporting a t-shirt that read, “It’s Harder to Kidnap a Fat Person, So Eat Up”. In the middle of my red beans and rice, I began thinking about this quote, and the more I looked at our server, who was, indeed pleasant, but noticeably carrying a few extra pounds, the more it struck me as true. Maybe I should quit worrying about my weight and just look on the bright side.
Since I was in elementary school I have watched my weight—watched it go up and watched it go down, and though I have never been fat, neither have I been skinny, which has been the ultimate goal. I know when it all started because every year in elementary school, the gym teacher would weigh us and then yell the results across the hollow sounding wooden floors to another person writing it down in our cumulative folders.
As the number ricocheted off those walls, even as a kid I cringed, wondering why they did this. I never knew them to do anything with this useless information. Can’t an adult just look at a kid and tell if he’s fat without announcing it to the whole world? It’s certainly something the other kids recognize daily and remind the pudgy one with pesky little jokes.
To this day I remember the two worst school days each year. One was the day we were weighed and the other when we had our voices checked for musical ability in front of the whole class and in listening range of about five square miles. Back then I was a little chunky (baby fat was the politically correct term in the late 50s-early 60s) and apparently tone deaf. I couldn’t do anything about the singing deal, but right then and there as a third grader I decided I didn’t want to be fat, thus beginning a fight that I have waged since. It was certainly easier before turning 50, but I’m hanging in there.
The reason for the struggle is that I like all the wrong kinds of food. Because my dad liked everything fried, my mother did just that. She fried steak; she fried vegetables; she even fried cornbread. And back then Crisco was sold in big cans, and she bought it often. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t snuck in some lard once in awhile. Then when you thought you couldn’t hold any more of anything, she plopped down a dessert at every meal—coconut cream pie, or chocolate pie with massive meringue, or chocolate sheet cake with gobbly-gooey frosting, sometimes with marshmallows for a little extra emphasis.
Though I am a much wiser and thoughtful eater and try hard to watch my waist and my weight, I still have “food weaknesses.” You won’t find me eating sushi, tofu, soy, or anything ending in those funny letters. I like “normal stuff” that ends in a “d” like bread, buttered, frosted, and…..fried!
Call me southern, but call me to dinner or better yet, kidnap me if you can!