Eat Veggies Again? I Ate ‘Em Yesterday

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 07, 2016

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Submitted: October 07, 2016

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Dinner was important. But only for my mother and father. For me, it wasn’t exactly a death sentence, but close. The worst part was getting there on time. When six o’clock rolled around I was usually in the school yard finishing a ball game. During the spring the sun was still out and you just couldn’t rush a game while in the winter shooting through the hoops with only street lights shining was one hellava challenge. Better than food.

When I would finally come through the door, there would be a barrage of angry comments from my father and quiet, angry stares from my mother. The one word repeated by my father was, “Again”.

Spending a lot of time at the dinner table to me was a waste of time. I could always eat everything I liked and needed just in about five minutes. What could be better than a hamburger on a soft, warm bun with the juices spurting into the mouth? What could ever top that? Two hamburgers were plenty and I only wanted the second ‘cause it tasted so good. So much better than any fancy French food.

But mother was persistent regarding balanced meals. It meant that there were some peas, carrots, or worst, broccoli, on the plate that I had to clear off before I leave the table. Of course, I fought it, and figured out every reason in the world not to eat those uneatable veggies. Daily at dinner, veggies filled my plate. My stomach was always full before I got to ‘em, but that excuse never went over too well. Those greens were part of the nightly discussion at the table. “They’re good for you, now eat ‘em,” my father would say.

Before I got to the dinner table, they surely knew I had juice and cereal in the morning, some food called lunch at school, and a quick glass of milk and cookies after school. So, why so much food at the dinner table that didn’t taste so good. Taste should be important.

What I could never figure out for the life of me was that my mother would always be pushing the food into me, “Eat some more”, she would say. “Don’t you know that children in Africa are starving? You should be happy to have food to put into your mouth”. Then pausing, she’d look across the table at my father and say, “You should try to cut down on the bread and potatoes. You know you’re putting on too much weight. For your own good, stop eating so much”.

It’s obvious to me that mothers want to do the right thing, but rarely get it right. Their kids never eat enough, grow up, and then eat too darn much. Hard to figure, isn’t it?


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