Making It Up As I Go Along #210 (Story)

Going to be shortish in the writing this week (and yes father, I know shortish isn’t really a word). I just find that a story written on a Tuesday can’t take an hour and a half of my morning.

Eating With the Edison’s

I sit here, not having yet eaten breakfast, with a house so full of food that the only way I won’t be throwing half of it away is if I go from the traditional three meals a day to twelve. Yes, I figure if I eat a meal or snack every two hours, I’ll get through the mountain.

Had I a girlfriend of wondrous appetite or a group of slightly fat friends who were inclined to drop by, the food problem wouldn’t be a concern. But loner me sits and peers into the mountain of sustenance every time I open the fridge door. And here I’ve been up for an hour after sleeping a good seven before that and none of the food as entered my mouth yet! I am falling well short of the job in hand.

It is a Christmas of food. Peanuts and seeds, for popping into the mouth, sit in the living room for TV time. Grapes lay on another table, already softening… hold on… be… right there… alright… Good, I just saved four grapes from the trash and dropped 1% of 1% of the total quantity of food in the house.

You know the irony of this? With enough food to feed a dozen, I’ve got to go to the grocery store! I’ve got about a day’s worth of milk and juice left. How odd the world is.

We’ve got a cake and a pie here… strawberries and yogurt and pineapple and bread. All priced to go! And sweet mother of God the turkey! Three meals of it in the fridge and another three or four in the freezer.

As presents under the tree signifies Santa had come, this country of food quite clearly shows that my mother has been by.

Food is what is expected at times of visits and gatherings. It has always been that way in Newfoundland generally and in the Edison (my mother’s maiden name) family specifically. And the Edison recipe book knows no serving sizes. You pretty well get the same amount whether it’s a weekend gathering of three or a week long visit of a dozen.

On Sunday, Melissa came over to help fight the battle and the four of us chowed down on heaping plates of a traditional Sunday Dinner. And when we all sat back and tried sighing some space in our bloated bodies, we waddled out to the counter to see that it appeared no food had yet been eaten. It was what myths are made of. The Horn of Plenty where any food taken is magically replaced.

For twenty minutes we worked at bagging some food and breaking out the Tupperware for more… and still the Horn remained full.

This is all a part of family. We share in good fortune and eat meals that our grandparent’s grandparents ate many a Sunday ago. And the leftovers are there on purpose as a welcoming snack when more friends and family happen to drop by to say hello. Keeping such a tradition alive here keeps a little bit of the Newfoundland mindset here in my Ontario life.

Now it’s time to eat. A day after a three day visit from my parents, four grapes just doesn’t get the job done.