squirrel dad
i love my dad. i truly do. as much as we tend to fight and bicker, we always make up, whether it be a simple ceasefire, or a proper sit-down with apologies from one side (or both... these are rare though); the one thing i can't see eye to eye with him are his eating habits. he eats like a squirrel, somehow managing to sustain his one hundred ninety pound, six foot five figure with nothing but a diet of almonds, bites of chocolate, fruit, and the choice of either baklava, homemade bread, or a night-time beer. i want to believe this a joke (believe me), but writing this, i've come to realize this is a reality i've been dealt. he complains about his cholesterol frequently, and some other myriad of blood result, but wont do anything. i yell at him often for his shitty eating habits, because i'm his only son. i must care. in his words, this is what keeps it all under control. i skipped out on going to a restaurant this year for my birthday because the last thing i wanted to hear at twenty two was how a sandwich was going to put him into a food coma. i need peace when eating, not bad feelings about enjoying my chicken sandwich...
i grew up with grandmothers that emphasized that good meals were vital for a good life, thus my definition of a good day follows what i've been taught. a warm stew or broth waiting for me after a cold day. sometimes spicy food to lift me from a cold and clear my sinuses. a salad (currently i've been loving a classic shopska salata; onions, tomato, red pepper, cucumber, salt, pepper, vinegar, a bit of oil, soft feta, mmmm) large enough worthy of being it's own meal. a palate cleanser at the end in the form of sweet. green tea from a bag with honey added. after starting a regular eight to four routine, sitting down with good food at the end of the day is something i look forward to. from the dinner table, i can sense my dad sitting enviously on the couch, watching me enjoy my meals when i get home. i tell him to come eat with me and it always ends with a no. it is so frustrating watching a grown man of fifty seven put himself in a position like this. i worry greatly. it makes no sense...