Written by Michael Claxton
In a classic episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond,” Marie has had enough of her lazy, boorish husband. When he loudly demands a pot-roast sandwich, she says — for the first time in their marriage — “Make it yourself.” Frank is stunned, but she’s not finished. “I’m onto you,” she adds. “You pretend to be stupid so I’ll wait on you hand and foot. Well, it’s over.”
Ray, fearing that his own wife will follow suit, urges his father to fight back, asking, “Dad, are you just gonna take that?”
Frank shrugs. “45 years,” he says, “I had a good run.”
I thought of that last month when I had a “come to Jesus” meeting with my doctor. To be clear, I was the one in need of redemption.
You see, a long time ago, a friend gave me some advice. “You can eat whatever you want until you’re 50,” he said. While I doubt many nutritionists would endorse this plan, I followed it to the letter. I have had a glorious half-century as a Southern gourmand, eating the food you read about in the Bible: sausage, country ham, cornbread, casseroles, peach cobbler. Though I wouldn’t go as far as comedian James Gregory — who once said, “I was a teenager before I realized that gravy was not a beverage” — I seldom saw a saturated fat I did not like.
Life was good. The All-Star Breakfast at the Waffle House could cheer any sorrows, and most problems could be solved by some soulful reflection and a Zebra Cake. And don’t get me started on the all-you-can-eat pizza place.
But now I am 50. With high cholesterol and a family history of heart disease, I’m afraid the buffet has to close. And it’s time to pay the bill.
I have accepted this. I am grateful that my doctor is trying to save me, and I will adjust in time. But acceptance does not mean I have to like it. In fact, I need at least six months to mourn.
I sat in silence as my new diet was explained. It involves nothing fried. No fried chicken, fried pork chops, fried catfish, fried pickles or fried egg rolls. No French fries, waffle fries, curly fries, crinkle-cut fries or sweet potato fries. I must cut way back on pastas, pizzas, breads, potatoes and desserts. No more Super Nachos Fajita or Sweet-and-Sour Chicken. No grease, fat, Crisco or butter. Frankly, I was waiting for the naughty list to include “joy.”
I also must exercise more. When I mentioned that I often enjoy a leisurely morning stroll picking up trash in the neighborhood, the doctor commended my civic spirit but said that I had to quicken the pace. I thought that bending over to gather soda cans would burn a few calories. As it turns out, I need to walk faster to get my heart rate up. It did little good to explain that I am an English teacher, which means that my heart rate is always up. Every run-on sentence raises my beats-per-minute something awful.
But no dice. Like the lemur king in “Madagascar,” I’ve got to move it, move it. So, if you see me passed out in a cul-de-sac, surrounded by uncollected garbage, please call my doctor.
I am grudgingly making changes in the kitchen. I baked some chicken, roasted some vegetables and ate a sugar-free cookie. I am cooking with olive oil and choking down salads. Last week I had a chickpea. I’ve even cleaned out the pantry. The low point was the day I threw out the Frosted Mini-Wheats. I played “Taps” in my head as all that powdered goodness tumbled into the wastebin.
Dozens of well-meaning people have reassured me that soon I won’t crave fatty and sugary foods. Perhaps. I hear that prisoners sent to solitary confinement are told the same thing: “You’ll get to where you hardly miss other people.”
But I will certainly miss some folks. I’ve said goodbye to Shirley at the Cracker Barrel, to Hazel at the Waffle House and to that guy — whoever he is — who keeps the cheese sticks flowing at Mazzio’s. We had some good times, didn’t we?
And so, as I slouch into the twilight, nibbling on almonds and spinach leaves, slowly turning into a gerbil, at least I have poetry. Wordsworth celebrates the power of memory to comfort us during our troubled adulthood as we reflect on a sweeter, more innocent past. For him, it’s rainbows and daffodils. For me, it’s potato salad and sweet iced tea. Even in the throes of yet another lousy bite of cauliflower, my mind goes back to the glory of country fried steak.
But Michael, aren’t you gonna fight this?
No, after a month of this new diet, I’m too weak to fight. But it’s OK. I had a good run.
