My plate was as full as my heart yet again this Thanksgiving. The difference was, my plate did not remain full. It emptied out. True, it filled up again, but that problem was rectified soon enough.
In my 50s, I’ve discovered this shovel-as-flatware approach to dining brings a different sort of fullness. And this one is not quite so satisfying. And it lingers longer, too.
I could eat blueberries by the handful. In fact, that is my preferred method. Sure, I could get Tracie to make a pie, or I could mix up a tasty batch of blue lemonade. But why? I enjoy them just as much by themselves, and it’s far less work for everyone involved. And less waiting for me.
Some of you are old enough to remember when a fried chicken dinner required not only a frying pan but also either kitchen shears or a big knife. That’s right, back in our day chickens were purchased in grocery stores, not drive-thru windows. And they looked pretty much like actual chickens, just without feathers, heads and feet.
When my mom served us fried chicken, she insisted on taking the back. That’s a piece of chicken the Colonel doesn’t serve, of course. But it’s there, right there with breasts, thighs and drumsticks. I always thought she was “taking one for the team,” as mothers often do — leaving the choice pieces for the rest of us. Now I’m starting to wonder if Mom was playing us.
