We learned to eat everything
By Sheila Donnelly/Austin Daily Herald

Last week was MEA and my son Timmy had two days off from school. He and I drove to Minneapolis and took the trolley ride from St. Anthony Main to see the sites of downtown Minneapolis.

I had gone on the trolley ride once before with Timmy when he was 2 years old, but he became sick and threw up on me the entire trip. This time, the ride was more pleasant for both of us and we took in more of the surroundings.

We went to a restaurant after the trolley ride and Timmy ordered one of the largest bacon cheeseburgers that I ever seen. He was relishing every bite but he started to slow down with the last couple of bites.

I said, "You look really full, you don't have to finish those last bites."

Well, he stuffed what was left of the sandwich in his mouth anyway and then he got a look like a zombie while he was forcing himself to chew that huge mouthful. I told him to go to the bathroom and spit it out, as he looked to be in pain.

He did this and returned to the table looking relieved. I don't know how or why he stuffs his mouth, but at least he doesn't talk with his mouth full.

Whenever someone doesn't want to waste food or tries to eat every bite on his or her plate, this reminds me of my dad. He would never let us throw any food away. Dad especially loved eating fried chicken. If we slowed down with our eating and set our bones on the plate, he would grab for the bones and say, "Aren't you going to eat that?" He would then take the bones away from us and eat what was left and say, "There's a lot of meat on this bone."

This was embarrassing if I had a friend over to visit. He would reach for my friend's food. Dad sat at the head of the table and ordered mom and his daughters to wait on him. He was the only one who was served a fresh green salad in a salad bowl with Western dressing drizzled on it. He was the king at the table and all the food was served to him first.

Dad was a great eater and sometimes it seemed like a race at the dinner table as we ate and stared at the dwindling pile of fried chicken hoping to get a second piece when we finished eating our first piece. Mom usually set aside the breast, as she only liked white meat. Every meal, dad commented, "I don't care how much you put on you plate, just so long as you eat all of it." I didn't really understand this statement, as it seemed like there was never enough potatoes for my growing brothers. Dad would watch my brothers like a hawk as they loaded their plates with food and if any of my brothers would pile more than his share of potatoes on his plate, Dad would order them to remove some for the rest of us.

Maybe mom got tired of peeling so many potatoes night after night and that's why there never was enough. I know that I would get tired of peeling potatoes night after night. Besides the potatoes and meat and vegetables, my mother always served a homemade dessert. She enjoyed baking, but none of her children are big sweet eaters to this day. I still make sure I eat all the meat on my chicken bones, but it took me a long time to quit feeling guilty about leaving anything on my plate.

But I got over the guilt since no longer is anyone watching me like a hawk.