Food for thought

By TAD BARTIMUS

My husband looked up from the book he was reading at breakfast and announced that the food he'd been eating for 25 years was killing him. Frying pan in hand, I instinctively replied, "It's my fault." Our conversation degenerated into a kitchen sink argument which ended when I pulled all the cookbooks out of the cupboard and yelled, "Then YOU do it!"

But I knew he was right. He has a sugar problem. Even with the best of intentions I have contributed to it. I have used butter and maple syrup and real vanilla to show my love. I have invoked Julia Child and Maida Heatter and ignored Pritikin and the Mayo Brothers. What harm can a little barbecue sauce do? It's just honey, Honey. A teensy piece of chocolate cake won't hurt you.

Now my husband says the only things he can safely eat are raw vegetables, steamed meat and dairy products in plastic cartons, rendering me unnecessary in my own kitchen.

These are lies; they HAVE hurt him. Ultimately they could kill him. I know, incontrovertibly, that I must change my attitude about food but, irrationally, this makes me angry. I think hard about why I am being so childish and conclude that the way I prepare and serve food is inextricably linked to my sense of self. I am a good cook; I know it, those who come to my table know it. Compliments from my guests boost my esteem and make me feel good.

Now my husband says the only things he can safely eat are raw vegetables, steamed meat and dairy products in plastic cartons, rendering me unnecessary in my own kitchen. This turn of events is akin to that black day he gave me the microwave for my birthday. It does not make me happy. It is also a reminder of passing years and forced accommodation, of a relegation to history of the days when we could do almost anything and get away with it.

I think back on some of our best times; they center around a big table where we shared meals with family and friends. I think about my grandmother and mother who taught me to cook; stuffing and stirring keeps me connected to them. I enjoy hosting Sunday brunches where people talk, lawn parties where we dance, simple suppers of leftovers where we share our day. Breaking bread together is a legitimate excuse for spending time with one another.

Meals also offer opportunities for civility in an increasingly rude world. Good food served on pretty dishes set on a tablecloth, with real silverware and linen napkins, is my way of saying, "See all this trouble I went to for you? This is proof of how much I care." Boiling broccoli flowerets and nuking skinless chicken just isn't the same.

But facts are facts; my man has a sugar problem. Like it or not, this expert at meat loaf, devotee of pot roast, connoisseur of au gratin potatoes must now become a tofu queen. I knew, when my husband came home from the store with soy milk and green beans instead of a six-pack and Doritos, that this was not a passing fad. This is a lifestyle change with more challenges than a recipe for a chocolate souffle.

I root around in the pantry looking for acceptable ingredients to start dinner. Beans, no; peas, no; pasta, no; rice, no. Oh well, swallow the ego, pass the celery and bon appetit.

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