Posts tagged ‘Food’

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August 29, 2011

A Story About a Fox and a Sandwich That He Wanted

Once upon a time, there was a fox who decided one night that he really wanted a Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwich, but he didn’t have any Swiss cheese or ketchup in his burrow. It was really too late to go out, plus he didn’t feel like it, so he made a peanut butter sandwich and ate it. But it wasn’t what he wanted and it didn’t slake his craving, and then he got pretty irritated that he didn’t have Swiss cheese or ketchup right then when he’d thought about it. So, he called out for delivery and he called a few different places, but of course, they didn’t have Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwiches, so he ordered some pizza and some sushi, and while he waited for it, he ate a few bowls of cereal and drank a lot of whiskey and got pretty drunk. By the time the delivery got there, it was about 2:00am and the fox was like, ‘This was so stupid. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow.’ So, he ate as much of it as he could and then he fell asleep on the couch without even brushing his teeth.

But by then, he was too drunk and full and uncomfortable to sleep very well, and he kept waking up periodically and being like, ‘Damn it! Why’d I do that? All I wanted was a Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwich.’ And then he promised himself that he would get the makings for such a sandwich on his way home the next day, and he just had to hold out until then.

The next day, the fox felt terrible all day long. He was hungover and his stomach was doing that weird, stretched-muscle thing that happens after you really overeat, where he felt like he was a Slinky that someone too young to play responsibly with a Slinky (but at the same time very strong for her age) had stretched to the point that it was just basically a very long, thin metal strip. And the fox really wanted to lie down on his stomach and moan, and also, he still really wanted a damn Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwich and there was just no way to get one for lunch, so he ate this giant club sandwich thingy that cost over $8.00 even though he was still full from the night before, so he really didn’t know why he did that, except that it was lunchtime and so something that felt kind of good was supposed to happen.

But after work! He went to the minimart that was on his way home, because he was positive they had that thin-sliced Alpine Swiss cheese, but when he got there, they only had this really shitty knock-off ketchup that the fox knew from experience was so cheap and thin, it tasted like instant tomato soup powder mixed with water and that wasn’t what he wanted at all. But he also didn’t want to go out of his way to go to any of the bigger stores that were really far away because he was really tired, and it’s not like he was shopping for some specialized gourmet food, or some kind of hot sauce you can only get on certain Indonesian islands, for God’s sake, there was really no reason why the minimart should only carry that terrible ketchup that nobody – NOBODY! – would ever want to buy, and it’s not even like it was that much less expensive than the regular ketchup. It was like maybe $.30 cheaper.

And right about then, something really weird happened to the fox. He suddenly felt as if he’d wanted a Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwich for his whole, entire life, even though he’d really only thought of it the night before, and he felt that he’d been trying to get a Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup sandwich for a thousand million years and everyone and everything had been taking every possible measure to thwart him, even though he had really only tried that one minimart.

So, he went home and killed himself out of sheer frustration, when, if it had been me, I would have just gone into a McDonald’s and gotten a whole bunch of ketchup packets.

Moral: Swiss-cheese-and-ketchup is a disgusting combination, and if that’s what you want out of life, there’s something really wrong with you.

Posted in Stories With Morals | 1 Comment »

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November 5, 2010

Consumed By Eating

What a horror is the need for daily bread!
This eating for life is a terrible deal.
I often think I’d far rather be dead
Than fix up and eat one more goddamn meal.

First, there is the coming by the stuff -
shop or scavenge, prepare or eat out,
The daily task of procuring enough
Eats hours from anything else you’re about.

Then, there’s mealtime preparation,
washing and chopping and getting out plate.
The time it all takes could make a vacation,
if the need for food should ever abate.

Then there’s the stinking, sticky kitchen,
the cooking smells, the piles of trash.
A simple meal of rice and chicken -
the counter, grimey; the walls, backsplashed.

Another hour dies in washing up -
this chore recurs all through the day -
the scrubbing and drying after you sup,
the putting all uneaten food away.

The ratio of food is never right -
sometimes we are bloated, sometimes hollow.
Only once a year do we feel light,
but sated – yet still, more meals must follow.

All this eating eats up piles of dough
Even if we do not count time lost.
My stomach is my wallet’s greatest foe,
It always wins, regardless of the cost.

A proper diet is a ton of work,
vitamins, calories, fat grams, nutrition.
Trying to eat right would drive one berserk,
And, gain or lose, you won’t please the physician.

Many times I’ve sworn I’ll kick the stuff,
ignore the pain and simplify my life.
But in a couple hours, sure enough,
A pounding head, a stabbing like a knife.

I drop what I am doing and I run,
and spend more time and money I can’t spare,
And eat and fill with gas, and have no fun
in doing what I must, but cannot bare.

Posted in Food, Poetry | Leave a Comment »

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October 20, 2010

Class-Based Shaming Is Calorie-Free!

Mayor Michael ‘No Fatties’ Bloomberg would like to remove soft drinks from the list of items that can be purchased with food stamps.

In general, I’ve been a fan of Bloomberg’s waistline-reducing initiatives, but I think this one is pretty ugly, however unintentionally. Obviously, there’s a stigma around using food stamps, and people who use them say it can be humiliating to grocery shop with them. Cashiers and other shoppers can be nasty and intrusive; people don’t think you should buy junk food at all, but they don’t think you should be able to buy pricey, healthy food, either.

Here, the health commissioners defend the measure in the Times:

This proposal to adjust the food stamp program is just one of many steps New York City is taking to reduce obesity. The city also has programs to increase the availability of fresh produce in poor neighborhoods; has set nutrition requirements for meals served in schools, after-school and day care programs and centers for the elderly; and has begun advertising campaigns to educate the public about obesity and nutrition. Taken together, these efforts will bring us closer to stemming the wave of obesity and diabetes in New York.

They, and other proponents of the ban, argue that soda isn’t food, and that there are many restrictions on the use of food stamps and this is one that should have been there all along.  But the thing is, it hasn’t been a restriction up until now, and this would be scoring a point about a mere symptom of a much larger problem at the expense of people who need additional social censure even less than they need a 2-liter of Coke. People on food stamps probably have other concerns currently taking precedence over kicking their soda habit, like, oh, say, getting off food stamps. Institutes that study such things say one of the big obstacles to digging yourself out of poverty is feeling like you have no control over your situation or your decisions, so further restricting people’s personal choices doesn’t seem very productive.

This very interesting blog post explains in detail how food stamps work in New York, and why this measure would be unlikely to produce the desired effect.

And here’s Sadhbhe Walshe in The Guardian:

On a recent shopping expedition (in my local C-town not some fancy organic joint), I paid $7 for a bag of apples, $5 for four oranges and $2 for one red pepper. Just those few items would eat up almost half one person’s weekly food stamp allotment. It’s no wonder, then, that people would opt for cheaper, high-calorie processed foods when money is tight.

The really frustrating part is that the reason that junk food and soda are so inexpensive (and therefore widely consumed) is that these products are subsidised by the federal government. All these foods contain high-fructose corn syrup, made from corn, which is a subsidised crop. So, while the poor are being frowned upon for their bad food choices, they are simultaneously being incentivised by misguided policy to make these choices. The hand that wants to take away is also the hand that giveth.

How much more sense would it make to subsidise the production of fruit and vegetables in low-income neighbourhoods, instead of Big Macs and 20-ounce Cokes and the like? That way, instead of imposing virtue on the poor, we could offer them a choice – and then try to move past the assumption that they might make a bad one.

Frankly, people need to stop talking about produce as if it were food in itself.  It has hardly any calories in it, so, while we should all ideally be eating a bushel of it with every portion of carbs and fat, the produce itself is extraneous to assuaging hunger. It’s more like a really elaborate, time-consuming vitamin. For example, last night after karate, I had a big bowl of brown rice, eggs, beans and cheese, and I also had a giant handful of spinach, a tomato and two carrots.  If I didn’t have any money, the first thing to go from that sentence would be the karate and the next would be the spinach, tomato and carrots, because, while they might be the most important part of that meal for my health, they’re the least helpful in my not going to bed hungry. Soda costs next to nothing, however, which is probably why it’s usually free where most people work.

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Posted in Economics, Food, Health, New York City, Politics | 1 Comment »

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May 31, 2009

On Animal Rights

My current position on this is, I eat meat and probably always will, and I don’t feel much compunction about it, but I don’t approve of needless cruelty and suffering for animals raised for consumption. While I don’t make much effort to curtail my consumption of animal products, neither would I go to bat for it – if meat were unavailable, I wouldn’t eat it. Those of us lucky folk in the developed world have an abundance of food these days, and all questions of the historical food chain aside, we don’t need to eat animals to survive anymore. Food is not that important and I don’t see meat-eating as somehow essential to my character or inheritance. So, if humane conditions on farms, and in dairies and slaughterhouses and so forth, led to less available and pricier meat, I would think it a worthwhile sacrifice. I would love to know that any animal-derived product I bought had never been the cause of pain and misery to any living creature at any stage of its growth, manufacture and transport – and hell, let’s extend that wish to all clothing, electronics, home furnishings and so forth – and if that guarantee meant that instead of piles of affordable goods to choose from, I had a smaller selection of pricier items, I’d happily make the trade-off and quit inadvertently subsidizing and profiting from exploitation and suffering.  I just don’t want to have to work at it.

The more we learn about the evolution of our species, the more difficult it becomes to draw a firm and absolute line between humans and other animals. Apparently, the latest word is we’re closer to dogs than chimps, which may go some little way toward explaining why we treat dogs like they’re people:

The marketing folks of the pet industry, in fact, use the term “humanization” to explain their good fortune. The pet owners driving the growth, many of them baby-boom empty-nesters, aren’t satisfied with shopping for their pets as animals. They’ve promoted them to junior humans, entitled to the same concern for health and happiness and company. Nearly half of pet owners in one survey say their animal sleeps in their bedroom (which probably explains the boom in the grooming business) and the most popular names for pets—Max, Chloe, Bella—sound a lot more like babies than the Spots and Fidos of yesteryear.

While the pet industry may be recession proof, we do not apparently ascribe the same importance to zoos, which have in fact declined in society’s estimation, at the same time as house pets have risen:

A lot of people wonder how much the current economic downtown resembles that of the Great Depression. One big difference comes in the support of zoos. In the ’30s, the institutions received significant support from Roosevelt’s Works Projects Administration. Artists created advertisements encouraging the public to visit zoos, and new buildings and exhibits sprung up in zoos across the country. St. Paul’s Como Park Zoo, for example, came out of the Depression with a bear grotto, monkey island, barn, and main building, thanks to the WPA.

Now, however, any allocation of funds to struggling zoos is immediately decried as wasteful spending. (I’m not saying I disagree.) And apparently, we haven’t been doing such a hot job of tracking and protecting endangered species, either.

Some feminists have long drawn parallels between mankind’s entitled disregard for animal welfare, and man’s viewing of women as an obligated sex class – both cases involve one group defining itself by its ownership of and right to use another group. Typically, these arguments are attempts by animal rights activists to persuade women of the importance of respecting all life as autonomous; PETA, on the other hand, offensively uses images of degraded women to market their animal rights agenda to men. (To me, the first is a stretch; the latter, an outrage.) Here’s Twisty on this:

The parallels between the myth of the happy hooker and the myth of the self-sacrificing meat animal are legion. . . . Both represent the privileged class’s celebration of itself and its contempt for anything it happens to debase in the course of its daily pillages. And the myths about oppressed individuals choosing to serve the vulgar interests of their oppressors have been created to allow the dominant culture’s beneficiaries to sleep at night.

Actually, these comparisons predate feminism:

A distinguished philosopher, Thomas Taylor, reacted to Mary Wollstonecraft’s 1792 call for “the rights of woman” by writing a mocking call for “the rights of brutes.” To him, it seemed as absurd that women should have rights as that animals should have rights.

(from the Kristof article discussed below)

Really, though, we all use animals to serve our purposes, even if that only involves misinterpreting canine affection as familial love, which, while not likely to cause any duress to the animal in question, might be nauseating to other humans.

But despite the many persuasive arguments for prioritizing the ethical treatment of animals, I can’t seem to work up much steam over animal rights. I know that worthy causes need not compete with each other, and that the way we treat animals is part and parcel of our overall attitude toward (and stewardship of) life on this planet, and so animal welfare is an integrated part of everything else in our long march toward a more advanced society. But at the same time, I care more about starving babies and enslaved women than tortured pigs and cows. (And by “care about”, I of course mean “think, read and blog about.” Not “donate to” or “campaign on behalf of.”)

Luckily, while my capacity for caring may be limited, no wee chicken is beyond the reach of the sheltering arms of my favorite journalist, Humanitarian Hero-at-large, Nicholas Kristof, who recently took a break from his usual coverage of the abuse, poverty and disease of unfortunate humans to pen a column on animal welfare:

One of the historical election landmarks last year had nothing to do with race or the presidency. Rather, it had to do with pigs and chickens — and with overarching ideas about the limits of human dominion over other species. I’m referring to the stunning passage in California, by nearly a 2-to-1 majority, of an animal rights ballot initiative that will ban factory farms from keeping calves, pregnant hogs or egg-laying hens in tiny pens or cages in which they can’t stretch out or turn around. It was an element of a broad push in Europe and America alike to grant increasing legal protections to animals.

Let’s hope there’s more of this, and that “guilt-free” food will come to mean something more significant than “low-calorie”.

Posted in Feminism, Food | 5 Comments »

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April 18, 2008

No More Happy Pizza?

Apparently, Cambodia is cracking down on happy pizza. I never sampled any happy pizza (or happy anything else) during my travels in Southeast Asia, and I’m not just saying that because my parents read this blog. I’m saying it because it’s true, because, as I’ve mentioned before, I am a total freaking snoozer of a person.

However, I can advise that if you find yourself in Cambodia and missing the easy access to backpacker pizza, simply hop North of the border into Laos, where you will find not only pot-laced items, but also opium- and shroom-inspired dishes aplenty. Although, as far as the opium in Laos goes, everybody I met who’d tried it said the same thing: ‘I guess it was alright. I’m not really sure if I got high, though.’ The drugs in SE Asia are as hit-or-miss as most everything else there, it seems.

Posted in Food, Travel | 2 Comments »

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June 2, 2007

Your Waitress Responds III

First of all, I want to know why so many well-to-do, theatre-going Upper West Siders will give a standing ovation to any old shit thrown up on a stage (and pay dearly for the tickets), but when it comes to tipping their pre-show waitress 20%, they seem to think that this reward is only merited with a serving performance of unparalleled perfection. I mean, what are people holding out for? I can only imagine what goes on in their minds.

‘Hmmm, she was prompt, very friendly, kept our glasses refilled, never made us wait for anything…but I just don’t know. I mean, she could have been prettier. Or she could have curtsied. She didn’t curtsy. She didn’t draw charicatures of everyone at the table, which would have been a nice gesture. She didn’t walk on her hands even a little bit. In sum, she was good, but not surpassingly brilliant as a waitress. I think 17% is fine.’

The hell with people, seriously.

Also, people who refuse to order off the menu should be bitch-slapped. If you want to invent your own dish, cook it at home.

Other people deserving of my wrath:

- Women who spend about an hour trying to construct a dish in such a way that it will contain no food, so that their dining companions will be impressed with their…whatever. If you just want something simple, cook at home. Or have coffee. But not at my table, because there’s a $20 minimum.

- People who think of something else to send me trotting off for each time I approach their table with the last thing they asked for, because they apparently think they are my only table. ‘And just some cream now. …And a glass of ice. …One more thing, miss: some red pepper flakes. …Aaaaand now I’d like a small piece of lemon.’ These people are probably touching themselves under the table cloth.

- Europeans, Brits, Asians. Ever wonder why you encounter such hostility and poor service in American restaurants? No, it’s not just a part of our culture, but you know what is? %$#@ing tipping! Learn it!

- Old people who act as though the entire process of eating out is distasteful to them.
‘What would you like to drink, sir?’
‘What?! Oh, for heaven’s sake, all I want is a glass of water.’

- Anyone who thinks that if they don’t want something, it needs to be taken off the table. And who feels that the unwanted item’s appearance is some sort of personal affront. ‘Oh, I don’t drink cream! Why would you bring me cream? You can take the cream away, I never take cream. I want a public apology for you leading other people in the restaurant to think I would associate myself with cream.’

- People who ask me if I’ve seen the movie, Waitress.

- People who, when they have received their answer, argue with me eternally, as if I will suddenly admit that they are right, and that I am lying or stupid.
‘We are all out of the lasagna tonight, ma’am. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t understand how you don’t have it. You had it last time.’
‘Yes, but we’re out of it tonight. I’m sorry.’
‘I came here specifically for the lasagna. I always get the lasagna. I’ve been coming here for ten years.’
‘We don’t have it.’
‘Talk to the chef. Ask him if he’ll make me the lasagna.’
‘We’re out of the lasagna. The chef is the one who told everyone that we’re out of it.’
‘I don’t understand. You don’t have the ingredients for it?’
‘We don’t have it. We have no lasagna tonight. You can order something else, or you can leave, but you can’t argue the lasagna into existence.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think there is lasagna, and you’re evil.’

- People who ask me, ‘How’re we doing on our lunch?’ when the food fails to arrive promptly. There’s this thing called a kitchen. I ring in your food, they cook it. The speed of that process is a factor I cannot control, alter, speed up, slow down, predict or manipulate in any way. It is entirely out of my hands. And if I so much as mention your impatience to the people who are in control of that process, invectives (in Spanish) are hurled upon me.

Posted in Food, Misanthropy, New York City, Rants, Work | 8 Comments »

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May 3, 2007

Diet Tips

Tried all the old favorites, but still obese? Here are some fresh, new tactics to try:

  • Keep a pair of dice in the kitchen. You only get to eat when you roll double sixes.


  • When you are suffering from hunger pains, you only want to eat because you know that that will eliminate the discomfort. Pretend you don’t know this. Pretend you think those pains will be eliminated by punching the shit out of everyone around you, who have all suddenly become unbearably irritating.


  • If you are about to eat something, make yourself throw it on the floor instead. Then, smash it up with your feet. Then, roll around in it, declaring, ‘This is what you deserve, fatty-fatty-McFatass!’ It is especially important to do this in restaurants, where the portion sizes are massive enough to really get a good paste going.


  • Look at photos of Lindsay Lohan, Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, the Olsen twins, Kirsten Dunst, and other rich and famous anorexics. Think about how hard you work and how little you make. Between the vomiting and the weeping, you’ll found it difficult to eat.


  • Plant, grow, harvest and slaughter all your own food. It’s good for the environment, and you’ll find it easy to keep slim on a diet of worms and dandelion greens.


  • For every bite you eat, make yourself burn a dollar.


  • Get a digital voice recorder and have your family, friends, ex-boyfriends or -girlfriends, coworkers, neighbors, children, rivals and acquaintances speak into it about what a giant, fat pig you are, and how they secretly cringe in disgust whenever you display physical affection for them. Listen to this testimony all day on a loop.


  • Whenever you are about to eat something, run outside and give it to a homeless person instead. Once he has touched it, it will be too disgusting to eat, and you can just throw it away.


  • Only eat while jogging.


  • Only eat while on the toilet.


  • Only eat while jabbing pins into your arm.


  • If all else fails, consider radical measures, such as surgically removing your stomach, stapling your mouth shut, or killing yourself.

Posted in Food, Health, Humor | 2 Comments »

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March 11, 2007

Low-Food Cafe

Low-Food Cafe

The Low-Food Cafe is a low-cal, low-fat, low-carb, low-food cafe that features dishes for the acetic gourmet. Chef Angie Brentworth has been living and cooking with anorexia nervosa for seven years, and opened Low-Food Cafe to supply abstainers with convenient, low-food entrees at reasonable prices.*

Appetizers:

Wasa cracker with Laughing Cow
A rye-crisp spread with light, herbed cheese-food product, 70 cal., 20 fat cal.

Mustard
A dollop of yellow mustard served in a teaspoon, 0 cal., 0 fat cal.

Soup and Salad:

Bouillon broth
A cup of hot broth made from half a bouillon cube, choose beef or chicken, 5 cal., 0 fat cal.

Jicama and celery salad
Chunks of fresh, raw jicama and celery served on a lettuce leaf, 50 cal., 0 fat cal.

Entrees:

Eggs Ana
One egg, cooked to order, served on half a toasted, low-cal bagel, 142 cal., 10 fat cal.

Eggs Mia
One egg, cooked to order, served on rye crisp, 105 cal., 5 fat cal.
Add Laughing Cow, 35 cal., 20 fat cal.

Vegan Delight
Tofu chunks sauteed oil-free in a non-stick pan, splash of soy sauce to taste, 70 cal., 30 fat cal.

Dessert:

Pencil
No. 2 pencil, unsharpened, 0 cal., 0 fat cal.
(not for consumption)

 

*Low-Food Cafe offers delivery in a limited area, but patrons should really earn their calories by walking to the establishment.

Posted in Food, Health, Humor | Leave a Comment »

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March 8, 2007

Autumn Wedding

It was a frosty October day when Bea told her mother of her betrothal. Ms. Holliwell was standing on the back porch, clutching her bathrobe tight around her throat, staring tragically into the North wind as though it were Yankee troops bearing down on her land that were going to kill all her sleeping babies.

‘Mother,’ said Bea, slamming through the screen door behind her. ‘I’m to be married today.’

‘Winter approaches,’ said Ms. Holliwell, and uttered a sort of strangled sob.

Bea came abreast of her mother and handed her a mug of coffee.

‘Who’s your betrothed?’

‘Jeremy,’ said Bea, and her mother slapped her hard across the face, whirled on her heel and marched straight through the living room into her bedroom, locking the door behind her.

‘What’d you say to Mama?’ asked Bea’s brother, Benjamin, who sat on the couch, eating his breakfast. It was a cherry pie. He lifted a forkful halfway to his mouth, and then sprayed it with a mountain of whipped cream from the can in his other hand.

‘I told her I’m marrying Jeremy today, and I am!’ shouted Bea, and her brother’s mouth was a cream-rimmed O.

‘The hell you are,’ said Mr. Holliwell from behind his paper.

‘I am, Daddy, I gave him my word.’

‘You can marry him when you’re fourteen and not a day before that.’

‘I’m marrying him today and not a day later.’ Bea was 11.

Her Daddy put his paper on the table, and looked at her as mournfully as if she were a dead baby.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I guess I’d best get the preacher.’

Bea crouched down by her mother’s door and scratched at it, while Mr. Holliwell phoned the preacher, and her brother licked the pie pan.

‘Mama,’ she said, trying to sound reasonable. ‘I love Jeremy, and he loves me. Why can’t you be happy for me?’

‘I’ll not have that Goddamn pumpkin in my family!’ screamed Ms. Holliwell, smashing something. ‘You may as well put a knife in my heart!’

‘Mama, be reasonable,’ said Bea, but she was soon drowned out by Ms. Holliwell’s harmonica.

‘You disrespect me daily, Preacher, and I’ll not stand for it – not even from a man of God!’ Mr. Holliwell was saying, meanwhile. ‘From this day forward the Holliwells are pagans! I’ll marry the girl my own self.’

He banged the phone down with a grunt of satisfaction, and the boy cheered, a clot of cherry at the end of his nose.

‘Come here children, come here,’ said Mr. Holliwell, and he took Bea on one of his knees and Benjamin on the other, but then he shifted Benjamin to the floor.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Today your father quarreled with his God and renounced him. Do you children know what the spirit is made of?’

At this point, Ms. Holliwell came out of her room, stark naked. She walked to the porch as if transfixed.

‘The spirit,’ continued Mr. Holliwell, ‘is made of light and dark stuff, and a balance must be maintained. The lightness of man seeks the darkness of God. But today, God laughed at us through his agent here on Earth. God has become lightness and to preserve the balance, we must all become dark.’

‘I think my children are stupid,’ said Ms. Holliwell, looking back through the screen door at her family, where they hadn’t followed her.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Mr. Holliwell.

‘When can I fix my wedding, Daddy?’ said Bea.

‘The wedding will go forth at 3:30 this afternoon,’ said Mr. Holliwell, and his wife was back in her room again, the door locked behind her.

*

By noon, Bea had made her wedding gown. It consisted of her old ballet leotard, with a striped beach towel as a skirt, and tinfoil accents in her hair and around her wrists and ankles. Her mother wept when she tried it on.

‘Oh, my baby,’ she cried, holding Bea to her. ‘You look so beautiful.’

‘I want you to be there, Mama,’ cried Bea in return, clinging to her mother. ‘I want you to see me get married. I want you to be happy for me.’

‘I just wish it wasn’t Jeremy,’ said Ms. Holliwell.

‘I love Jeremy,’ said Bea. ‘He’s warm and beautiful.’

‘He’s an autumn squash and I hate all harbingers of winter,’ said Ms. Holliwell. ‘But if you love him, then I suppose that’s that.’

*

At 1 p.m., Benjamin had a late lunch of four peanut butter and banana sandwiches. He buttered the outsides of the sandwiches and grilled them in a pan. Then he ate them with a fork and knife, pouring honey over them like syrup on pancakes for babies. Then he made another sandwich, substituting apple slices for the banana. Then another, substituting strawberry jam. Then he took his bike into town for another jar of peanut butter. He told Todd, who works at the Quick-Mart, that his sister was marrying Jeremy, and that the Holliwells were now pagans.

‘Sounds about right,’ said Todd.

‘Would you like to come to the wedding?’ said Benjamin. ‘It’s at 3:30 today.’

‘Can I crash it?’ asked Todd.

‘You can be my date,’ said Benjamin.

‘All right.’

*

At 3:00, Ms. Holliwell did her daughter’s hair. She trimmed it through her tears, using fingernail scissors, as her nice ones had gone missing.

Mr. Holliwell donned his pagan turban.

Benjamin served Todd appetizers in the living room. They were English muffin pizzas. Soon they went to liberate the groom from the pumpkin patch.

At 3:30, everyone assembled in the backyard, and Ms. Holliwell played the prelude on her harmonica.

‘Here ye, here ye,’ said Mr. Holliwell, and Ms. Holliwell concluded with a train whistle. ‘On this day in the year of our erstwhile lord, 2005, in this the month of October – this the 12th day of the month of October, rather – I, Jameson Holliwell, do hereby wed my daughter, the light of my life, Bea Holliwell, to this pumpkin, the hope of my future, Jeremy, in the presence of my wife, the fascinating Denise Holliwell, my son, the placid Benjamin Holliwell, and my convenience store clerk, the effeminate Todd. If anyone here have any objection to this wedding, speak it now.’

‘I object,’ said Ms. Holliwell.

‘Mama,’ hissed Bea.

‘What is the nature of your objection?’ asked Mr. Holliwell.

‘Jeremy is…well, he’s just not a summer squash, is he?’ sniffed Ms. Holliwell.

‘I’m so sorry, Jeremy,’ wailed Bea. ‘I’m so sorry that you have to enter into such a family of bigots and haters!’

‘Benjamin,’ said Mr. Holliwell, holding up a hand for silence. ‘Do you support or overrule your mother?’

‘Overrule,’ said Benjamin promptly, whereupon Bea’s swimming eyes looked upon him in devotion and love, as if he were her first-born baby.

‘Todd?’ said Mr. Holliwell.

‘Uh…overrule?’ said Todd, whereupon Benjamin grasped his hand and kissed it, as if it were a baby he thought had died, but was merely sleeping.

Todd grabbed his hand back, as if it were his baby that some stranger was touching.

‘Then,’ concluded Mr. Holliwell. ‘Denise has been outvoted and the marriage stands. Bea, you may kiss your husband.’

And even Ms. Holliwell admitted it was sweet, the young love. Her tears got into her harmonica, and she had to clean it later, lest the salt water corrode the workings.

*

At the reception, Benjamin served four-cheese quesadillas, Chex mix, spinach-artichoke dip, take-out Chinese, moussaka, cereal (his special mix), mint meltaways, Ruffles and hurricanes. The Holliwells got trashed and rowdy, though Todd left rather early on. Bea was offended that he did not bring a wedding gift.

It was a lovely wedding, they all agreed, as they retired for the evening.

Benjamin slept on the couch, to let his sister and her new husband have some privacy.

*

Ironically, it was precisely 3:30 that morning when Benjamin’s appetite woke again. He crept into the bedroom he shared with Bea, and liberated his new brother-in-law from the wedding bed. Taking him into the kitchen, he made him into some nice tarts, the leftovers of which he served at breakfast next morning.

This horrific event, the Holliwells all reported in later years, was really the climactic end to their familial harmony. They were never the same again. Because her brother cooked her husband, Bea broke entirely with the family eight years later, going away to college and never returning. She did not remarry.

Three years after the climactic event, Todd quit his job at the convenience store. Benjamin sought him out at his apartment and asked for his hand and, spurned, tried to drown himself in a nearby creek, which wasn’t very deep, so he went home and he never left again.

Twenty-five years after the climactic event, Ms. Holliwell died of cancer.

And four years after that, Mr. Holliwell sold the house, and made Benjamin move with him to Pennsylvania, where he presently took up with a woman he met one night at Denny’s. Benjamin never got on with his father’s new lady-friend, and after all he’d been through, how could anyone expect it?

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