Eating Confessions

This is a time for confession and ….. your non-judgment. The purpose of this column is to bring out of the closet, the episodes in our lives when we have eaten ourselves into oblivion on something, in a way, that is – to most people – totally disgusting.

Baby boomers, those older, and the economically challenged will understand this. If you aren’t one of these, please read on and tell me if you can identify. My parents were the most cost-conscious, economically conservative – that is to say cheapest people I have ever met. It’s how they fed, housed and clothed us I now realize, but when you’re watching all the good food available on television and it’s not in your house, well, you wish it was.

My first big foray happened when I was about 9 or 10. My parents were having a card party and my dad was sent off to the grocery store to get provisions. Without my mother’s knowledge, I added some things to her list, and then cheerfully offered to unpack the groceries upon my dad’s return. Mother was busy cleaning the house for the party, and my dad had had a few beers, so I was golden. The extra large bag of Fritos, 2 glass bottles of Pepsi and a dozen glazed donuts found their way under my bed.

Once the party was in full swing, I grabbed a glass of ice and broke into the Fritos like a starving desert island shipwreck survivor. The only breaks I took were to grab a donut now and then. It was heaven! I loved Fritos and donuts and could never – until that night- get enough of either. Fast forward to 4AM. I am so sick and miserable trying to keep all of this down that I am softly groaning. I know that if I get up to vomit, my parents will hear me and be onto my theft. Somehow I kept it all down, but didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next day was Sunday, and I feigned a strange stomach ache that required staying in bed for most of the day. To this day, just the thought of the orange and red of the Fritos bag turns my stomach. If I smell them on someone’s breath, it’s all over.

So, there’s confession #1. My next endeavor was at an unsupervised slumber party which had unlimited junk food of every kind. It was nirvana. Luckily, nobody paid much attention to my focus on all the food, and this time I ate myself sick on cream stick donuts. Can’t look one in the eye to this day.

I’ve polled my usual group of baby boomer consultants about similar indulgences and haven’t been really successful. My former co-worker Debbie M. once came home from school and devoured 2 lemon meringue pies in one sitting without so much as a glass of milk to wash it down. She’s not proud of it, but it has become family folklore since she is so slim.

My friend Phyllis K. recalls that there weren’t treats in her house much as she was growing up, but on Saturday mornings they had a dessert called Swedish flop (I am not making this up) for breakfast. Then, on Saturday night, they each were allowed a bowl of ice cream from the quart that was emptied that night. Her husband Wayne has fond memories of the Three Musketeers and Butterfinger candy bars he would buy with the nickels he got for his allowance.

Did your parents by any chance have friends without children who you would visit occasionally? Well, mine did, and they always had beautiful ornate dishes filled to the top with candy. My mother was onto me. “Do not ask Marion if you can have any of her candy,” she would admonish me. This was torture. I would sneak just enough to insure that the level didn’t decrease significantly.

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