Arrayed behind this surreal tableau are two dozen
Nesco crock potsburbling with enough potato chowder and five-bean casserole to
provision an NFL training camp for the entire pre-season. Friends and
family spar competitively over who can whale down a fourth helping of cranberry
marshmallow salad. I’m nursing a modest portion of tater-tot
casserole and trying to behave myself. This is viewed as a sign of
weakness by the menfolk and the poisonous stink-eye I’m getting from
Grandma is too much to take. Clearly, I do not love her enough to power up on raw-beef-on-rye
sandwiches then get serious with at least three helpings of her famous
bacon rollum-ups. I have insulted everyone present. And this hurts me.
It’s the holidays, after all.
Before you know it: Kapow! Presto-change-o, it’s
New Year’s Eve and the only thing I can squeeze into for my big date
at the Ponderosa champagne buffet is a pair of sweatpants and even
those are showing fatigue cracks at the waistline. I have resolved to
do better this year. Beginning three days prior to Thanksgiving I will
observe a five-point program designed by Barb Troy, assistant
professor and nutritionist at Marquette University:
1. In all things, balance; during this season of
bounty, do not deny the flesh, tame it.
2. Be cognizant of portions. Just because the guy
next to you never met a Christmas ham he didn’t like, doesn’t mean
you have to follow suit.
3. Physically remove yourself from the presence of
food. No more playing canasta directly over the dessert cart.
4. Elevate your level of physical activity above
normal parameters. Flapping your arms wildly with a chimichanga stuck
sideways in your throat does not count toward this goal.
5. Find holiday activities that do not revolve
around eating. In my family situation, this would restrict me to
kicking over the chair of my cousin-in-law who is a vocal Chicago
Bears fan
and drinking, drinking, drinking.
Traditionally,
overeating at the holidays is viewed as an act of heroism in Wisconsin
households. Just ask my cousin P.J. who’s jackknifed over a card
table piled up with a flock of smeary Chinet plates. Muffled,
transcendent sounds push out from behind his teeth as he rocks
to-and-fro alongside the nativity set. He’s working out on his
third, hideously KC-Masterpieced joint of ribs. My nephews, who aspire
to his gastronomical prowess, egg him on with wild grunts and WWF-style
fist pumping. Below his chin, in the splash zone, the wise men are
playing keep-away with the baby Jesus.
