Food Fight

         Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves. I wear my lunch on my shirt. Most days I look like I went toe-to-toe with a Salad Shooter. At least five minutes of every day is spent picking food crustules off of my clothes. Sometimes I see people staring at me. I’m sure it looks like my shirt has hives. I really don’t know how it happens. One minute the ravioli is on my fork and the next it’s sliding down my chest like a prisoner shot dead in a jailbreak.
         Last week I found a two-inch piece of toast in my breast pocket. It was sticking up like a whole wheat handkerchief. I’d been walking around for half a day looking like a Denny’s lounge singer before anyone said anything. That’s nice. The barista asked me if that was where I kept my lunch. Yeah, I got a chicken potpie in my sock and a piece of melon under my hat. Don’t you wish you could be as cool as me?
         Some things I can’t eat at all, like tacos in the car. Three blocks from Taco Bell and it looks like a piñata exploded in the front seat. I need a ferret to find all the lettuce and ground beef I’ve squished down into the seats over the years. Certain types of food are out altogether no matter where I eat them. Chinese food, for instance. Is there a less efficient way to get food to your face than chopsticks? Why don’t they just give us a piece of string and a seashell? Does anyone know how to use these things? When I go out for Chinese food people three booths away find my food in their laps. I may as well blow up a balloon, fill it with rice, and pop it with a pin for all the food I actually get in my mouth. At least then I have an excuse for wearing my dinner out to the car. “Would you like a box, Mr. Currington?” “No, thanks. I’ll just wring out my tie when I get home.”
         Recently, I’ve begun a nervous habit of wiping my mouth after bite. Every 10 seconds it’s dab, wipe, lick and dab. Waitresses think I either have tourettes or I’m signaling them to steal third.
         My son has the same problem with food as I do but he’s only 12 so he still gets sympathy from people, especially older women with grown children. They often walk up to him in a store, lick their thumb and wipe the day-old hash browns out of the corner of his mouth. Then they’ll look at and shake their head as if they’d just caught me offering my son a shot of Southern Comfort. Ok, so I don’t always notice what’s going on with his face. Maybe I’m too busy stopping in every polished window to see how much breakfast I have on my pants.
         A lot of times my son’s meal doesn’t end up anywhere near his face. I know he doesn’t play with his food but he must at least taunt it because it’s always trying to escape. I’ve often wondered if food is still sentient even after we cook it. I’ve noticed that the only food what stays on Taran’s plate is the stuff he’s never going to eat.
         Pork chops routinely slide off the table like little brown hockey pucks. We’ve actually chased Jell-O around the living room like one of those little 25-cent bouncy balls. Brussel sprouts, on the other hand, stay riveted to his plate. You’d think they’d at least rattle around a bit. Why don’t these little green golf balls go rolling around the kitchen and lodge under the fridge like the Cheerios? It’s because brussel sprouts are smart. They’re playing dead like ‘possums. They figure if they don’t move my kid won’t notice them and they’ll get away. I’m thinking of passing each plate over a roaring garbage disposal before I bring it to the table so all the food has a good idea of where it’s going if it doesn’t get eaten.
         My food dyslexia comes from my father who could eat a five-course dinner and have enough left on his undershirt for two midnight snacks. His wife, Betty, is just the opposite. Put on a pillbox hat and she could pass for Queen Elizabeth. Betty could eat soup riding a bicycle down a bumpy road while sneezing. Nothing gets off this woman’s fork. She sets the hook in a plate of peas as well as any salmon fisherman. I’m beginning to suspect her forks are barbed.
         Dad used to make up new etiquette. Once, while we were having dinner at a restaurant he invited a young lady at the table across from us to go sightseeing. Whenever he’d point to a mountain or famous building he’d say, “excuse my finger” as though he was shoving it up her nose. “Oh, look at that! A Yellow Breasted Nettle Pecker! Excuse my finger.” “See that? That’s a statue built to commemorate all the fisherman lost at sea. It’s made out of Halibut lips. Excuse my finger.” Fourteen years old and I’m trapped with a beautiful woman in a Oldsmobile Delta 88 with a travel guide/proctologist.
         There are three generations of us now and there’s no sign of letting up. Taran is still dumping ketchup on his fries like he’s trying to put out a fire. I’m still walking around the parking lot looking like I fell face first in the salad bar. Such is life. If anyone has any tips on how to avoid making a lasagna mustache tonight I’d be happy to hear from them.