my eating machine

I am in awe at how much my son can eat.  And even more amazed that nothing sticks.  He easily wears the slim fit at J Crew.

Around four, Alexander has lunch.  He arose from bed after two so his meal schedule is truncated.  He begins with a gigantic bowl of pasta.  After that is consumed he announces, “What else do we have?  I’m still starving.”   I go through the short list of what I have, since he’s finished off most of what was in the fridge from my Whole Foods shopping spree just two days before.  “Take some salad,” I suggest. But before he takes it, he quizzes me.

Where did you get it?

Whole Foods.

When did you buy it?

A couple of days ago.

What’s in it?

Cranberries, goat cheese, and walnuts.

I just want lettuce.

Then just eat that.  Geez.

All this while he sees me trying to read The Goldfinch.  Then comes,

What kind of dressing do you have, I don’t want the vinaigrette one that comes with it.

I recommend the fig vinaigrette I also bought at Whole Foods.

Where is it?

On the side door of the fridge.

I don’t see it.

It’s there.

Oh I see it.  Have you tried it yet?

Yes (I lie).

Is it good?

Yes (I lie again as I haven’t tried it yet).

Do you think I’ll like it?

Yes.

Never mind.  I’ll just make oil and vinegar.

Ok.

What vinegar should I use?

The conversation continues, but finally he settles on just plain balsamic.  The fact that I am trying to read my book is of no consequence to my son.

We have dinner early, around seven.  “Sam is coming over and I need to be done by eight.”  So I rush to meet Alexander’s schedule, although Sam doesn’t arrive until nine.

I make a great dinner.  Alexander eats:

·      Three good-size Berkshire pork medallions.

·      Two potato latkes (from Zabars, the best).

·      Roasted kale (He picks out the tofu and drops it in my plate with the appetizing comment, “Here, I’m not eating this; just looking at it makes me want to throw up.”).

Around ten, I hear Alexander rattling around in the kitchen.  I of course have been banished to my room and jokingly (I hope) told, “Pretend you’re not even here.” 

I hear pots being taken out.  Cooking going on.  And Sam being asked, “Do you want some pasta?”

One day it might catch up with him. But for now, I wish I could eat just a fraction of what my son eats and still stay thin.