Why do people care so much about what other people eat?

Specifically, why do friends or family members care what their loved ones eat?

I get parents wanting their kids to try different food. No kid should eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day every day, of course.

But one of the best parts of being an adult is that I don’t have to follow what people say I should eat.

My parents made me sit at the table and finish my dinner, no matter what it was. That meant choking down au gratin potatoes. I’ve since had them, made from scratch like my husband does, and they’re tasty – gooey and chewy and heavy on the three different kind of cheeses he put in there.. But those of my youth were from a box and tasted like, well, a box. Cardboard with something akin to cheese but not really cheese. More like, paper cheese.

My husband is a fantastic cook. And after living with him for over 23 years I’ve come in contact with and learned to enjoy more things than I ever thought I would. Mushrooms, cooked onions, and real mayonnaise, to name a few. I’ve come to love all kinds of seafood, none of which I ever tried in my 21 years leading up to meeting him. This Norwegian/English/Catholic/Midwestern girl has also come to savor barbecue ribs, Chinese food, seven-layer lasagna, and an amazing array of spices other than salt and pepper.

But with that, I’ve also had several things put down in front of me that I’d rather not touch, including ring bologna and sauerkraut, venison or any type of wild game, and Mexican food.

The beauty of it, however, is that no matter how starving I am or what the rest of my family is eating, I can choose to skip the meal and eat whatever I want – because I’m an adult.

I have that right, as a 50-years-old, to refuse to try something I don’t want to even try. Perhaps I’ve tried something like it before or detest the smell. It is my prerogative to not eat, to not even try, something put in front of me.

I, as woman living in the United States of America, have earned the right.

However, inevitably, I’ll be sitting with my husband and/or friends perusing a menu at a restaurant and I’ll state I’m going to get the BLT.

Some will shrug, concerned about what their own bellies desire. But a few – and I know who they are – will groan or sigh and point out other items on the menu that “sound good.”

I’ll reply that I’m sure they taste great, but I’m good with what I’ve ordered.

Then BAM – there it is. The question I loathe will be asked, more often than not with a sneer.

“Well, have you tried it?”

Lie, TT, lie, I tell myself before answering.

Instead I opt for honesty and say no, I haven’t.

Because the truth of the matter is, I love, and I mean LOVE, BLTs, whether they’re from the local American Legion or an upscale eatery downtown. The beauty of being an adult and paying for my own meal means I can choose to order whatever my heat desires.

I mean, I couldn’t give two shits what other people eat. If I like something and they don’t, not once does it occur to me to beg and plead with them to change their order to mine and “just try it.”

If I was eating at a friend’s house and they served something I wasn’t crazy about, sure, I’d obviously have to try it. And I’d do it willingly and happily because I accepted their offer to come over.

But eating out, one of my favorite things to do in this world, comes with unspoken caveat that I get to choose my individual meal cooked the way I want, with the sides and beverage I want.

Even if that meal is from McDonald’s.  

He ran off the other day. It wasn’t the first time, and, unfortunately, it won’t be the last. We usually go looking for him but more often than not, wait until he returns home.

The “he” being Toby, our family’s 10-year-old terrier/Chihuahua pooch, who escapes through our front door about once a month.

Could we run after him? Yes, but it’s futile. He’s too fast for any of us and when he wants to run, there’s nothing stopping him. Toby’s previous owner, who lives across the street from us, once chased him for nearly a mile. Then of course there was the mile he had to walk back with Toby in his arms…

This day was no different. Toby came back and flopped on the couch, exhausted from his escapade.

The next day, while perusing Facebook – that time-stealer and procrastination enabler – I came across a couple photos of a dog on our town’s “What’s Happening In – “ page. Cute dog, I thought, before realizing it was Toby,

The poster said something to the effect of a little guy running down the street all alone. She tried to get near him to look at his collar but he ran away frightened. Indeed, one of the photos showed a very apprehensive looking Tobinator (one of his many endearing nicknames).

I mean, I’ve seen several similar posts of course about a found dog or cat wandering around a yard with pleas to locate the owner.  

I just didn’t know how exactly fast those pleas went viral.

Granted, the person didn’t know how long Toby was roaming around but the photo was taken from across the street. There’s nothing but a farm field on that side. So the person, who said they tried to catch him, stopped their car and got out. Also, they took time to snap a couple photos. The speed limit at that point is irrelevant, as most vehicles along that stretch travel a cool 45 – 50 mph. And it’s a narrow road – one tight lane each way. It was also late afternoon, a fairly busy time with people travelling home from work.

In essence, this gal potentially risked creating an accident because she saw a dog running on a path along the road.

Could my dog also have caused an accident by potentially darting into traffic? Absolutely.

But Toby was gone for roughly 25 minutes. In no time at all, this gal stopped her car, tried to catch him, took a couple pictures, then (presumably but who knows) arrived at her destination (or stopped somewhere along the way) and posted it to the town FB page.

The first person to reply was someone telling the woman to post on the lost dogs page.

Again, could Toby have been running around the neighborhood completely separated from his family for hours, possibly days? Yes, it was possible…

I suppose I should be grateful that neighbors look out for one another and our precious four-legged family members.

However, the first – and only – thing I think when driving and I see a dog running loose is that I hope it doesn’t get hit by a car. If I’m at home and see one in my lawn I think gee, I sure hope it doesn’t poop in my yard.

But in this day and age, people knee-jerk to every siren, runaway dog, or loud bang they hear. They grab their phones and post about them on their local FB pages.

My tolerance for arguing, fights, strange noises, or seeing a dog on the loose must be much higher than most. Perhaps it comes from my Norwegian/English/Catholic background. A personal, albeit unspoken, motto of my family growing up was “I won’t get in your business if you don’t get in mine.” My mother never gossiped or commented on others’ lives like the other ladies’ of the neighborhood.

If I had to be honest, though, I’d probably be labeled a lurker on FB. I’ll stay up way past my bedtime to read a 100-comment thread, nod my head in either agreement or dissent, but rarely, if ever, post a reply (unless I’m drunk, which happens on occasion). I may punch the “like” or “angry face” button but that’s it.

Do I benefit from others’ nosiness, however? Of course. I mean, I, too, may wonder if that boom was a gunshot or firecracker. But I choose to creep along and fly under the radar and silently judge. I can sit on my high horse and tell myself – and others – that I am not one of “those Facebook people.”

I’m sure I won’t change and become a keyboard warrior anytime soon, if at all. I, like my mother, am content with not stirring the pot or riling up my neighborhood with every sight, sound, or someone suspicious.

Is my feeding off others’ posts hypocritical? Sure.

But can I live with that?

Also, sure.

I watch all of the 9/11 coverage every year. I don’t say I “still” watch, as that implies the event is an afterthought.

It should be, for all of us, at the forefront of our collective consciousness. Collective, as in American.

I work part time at my local elementary school, where both of my kids attended. The principal is a great guy. Last evening, he sent out a video to teachers, which was created by the History Channel, to show their students (if they wished). He described it as an event that “happened to New York.” I applaud his sentiment, but I disagree with his wording. It wasn’t something that just happened to New York City. It happened to all of us – the United States of America. It happened to Americans living in the northernmost tip of Alaska to those in the southernmost part of Florida.

I have the usual story that most adults around my age do of that day. I was on my way to work, heard of a plane flying into (on accident, I assumed) the North Tower of the World Trade Center. By the time I arrived at work, another plane had hit the South Tower. I was only on the job for a couple of weeks. When I asked what was happening a rude co-worker screamed in my face – “We’re being attacked!”

I worked my eight hours, then went home. My husband and young son met me at the door and we embraced. A girlfriend of mine later told me that her husband called her at work and told her to leave immediately. Everything was crazy.

Another girlfriend and I were scheduled to fly out September 12 to see our friend in Las Vegas.  Instead, as everyone knows, flights were suspended for an unprecedented three days in America. When we finally did get the go-ahead, the airport was like a ghost town.

The eeriness wasn’t due to the amount of people in the airport, but rather the aura that surrounded everyone in it. People were quieter. Everyone seemed to move in slow motion. I looked at people and they looked back at me, our expressions understood without words being spoken. I felt we were all thinking the same thing – It could have been me. It could have been us on those flights, just a few days before, suspended in the sky with zero hope of surviving.

I was one of the first people on our flight to be routinely stopped and frisked. I choked up as I watched my girlfriend casually waved through by the boarding agents. Of course I had no reason to think I wouldn’t be able to get on the plane, but for a second, I almost wish I would have. My feet felt like lead as I was cleared and walked to the plane’s door.

I’m a nervous flyer – it’s known around my circle of friends. But as I looked into the cockpit while boarding the plane, tears swelled my eyes. I took the seat next to my friend, who I later found out had already warned the guy sitting next to me that I’d be crying, and let it all flow.

I know now I wasn’t just crying for me. Without fully comprehending nor being melodramatic about it, I was crying for people who recently, at some point on their fateful flights, realized quite possibly in a split second that they would not be seeing their families or loved ones ever again.

I have a friend who is the type of guy who thinks everyone else is just as interested in what he’s doing as he is.

You know the type – talks to you on the phone describing traffic annoyances that only he is experiencing. Interrupting conversations with “Hey, just saw a cop car go by,” or “The guy next to me is picking his nose.”

I can only reply with a “wow” or “cool” or “awesome” or a smiley face or thumbs up so many times.

Also is the person who posts fireworks on their Facebook page on the Fourth of July.

Bruh, I’ve been watching fireworks every year for the past five decades. Unless the lights exploded into a picture of a giant penis, I really don’t care.

On another note, the same person rarely poses a question asking what I’m doing. If I am blessed with one, it is usually interrupted with an unsolicited solution.

“Oh you’re cold? Well turn down the air conditioning!”

Yeah, well I’m post-menopausal and run hot/cold within the same minute, so unless you have a magic pill to solve this problem, then please keep your observations to yourself.

Anyone with me?

The only ones who look good or sound good yawning are babies and puppies.

Ever ugly eat?

You know, when you get home from a bar and are stone drunk and completely starving?

I’ve named the phenomenon “ugly eating.”

The other night I completely smashed my leftover BLT sandwich into my face.

My husband had dragged his sorry butt upstairs. I called to say I’d be right there as I opened the Styrofoam container I had just brought home from our evening out meeting friends.

I was alone in the kitchen, light on above the sink dimly lit.

And I ate.

I shoved that sandwich in my mouth so fast I’m surprised I didn’t gag.

I laughed at myself as I ate. No napkin, no breaths for air.

And it was glorious.

Sometimes moments alone are seriously the best.

I avoid grocery shopping like I do the plague (or any global virus, I should say). Probably more.

In reality, it’s eating – from start to finish – that I wish I could avoid.

From planning meals to (the dreaded) grocery shopping to preparing, cooking, and cleaning up, the daily question of what’s for dinner is the one chore I’d be happy to eliminate from my life.

If I could eat out or order in every night of my life, I would. Oftentimes I wish all my meals could be taken in the form of a pill.

I buy food from the gas station as much as I can. If I could make a meal out of milk, eggs, and Lunchables I would. Serve it all on paper plates and snap!

Recently, a friend and I had a discussion during a weekend at our friend’s cabin. I was opening a bottle of wine and asked her what she wanted to drink. She said water, explaining she’d rather eat her calories than drink them. The others agreed (thus confirming the reason why I’m usually the only one drunk at our gatherings).

Do I love the taste of food? Sure. Especially when someone else makes it. And serves it. And cleans up after me.

The strange part of all this is that my husband and son are the cooks in the family. And not just slop together find-what-you-may-in-the-fridge kind of cooks, but amazing cooks. Grill masters, actually. As long as they have a slab of meat in front of them every night, they are happy.

Yet the daily question of what’s for dinner is something I can’t get past.

I’ve asked myself what my biggest hang-up is about food, and consequently, I’ve made a lot of sub-par, even rotten, meals in my life. I’m just not “good” at cooking.

Most of my disdain stems from the fact that I didn’t come from a long line of gourmet chefs. I grew up with the basic  motto of eat to live, not live to eat. And, as true Minnesotans, the only spices in our cabinet were salt and pepper. I never spent time in the kitchen with my mom. Nothing much was made from scratch. We ate to fill our bellies – and fast – so we could head off to watch TV.

Am I thankful that I have access to food, money for food, and shelter under which to cook said food? Of course. And we as a family express that each time we pray before dinner.

But how can I get past the negativity I have towards all things home cooking? What can I do to make looking at meals as a positive in my life?

Easy  – planning.  

As with most things in life, planning is key. If I engage our household to put thought into what we’d all like to eat during the week on Sunday, I can make sure we have the correct ingredients or shop accordingly Monday morning.

I work from home, after all. I have no excuse.

Sure, I may still race through the grocery store, throwing food in the cart, oftentimes mistakenly grabbing a low-cal or light product instead of the real deal in my haste. But if I concentrate and do a good job, I can always treat myself to something special.

After all, the liquor store is right around the corner.

Looking good translates to me feeling good. I know every article out there says if you feel good inside, you’ll project it outside. And to some extent that’s true.

But I’ve learned, after all these decades, that there are a few things I never leave the house without.

First and foremost – lipstick. My go-to color has always been a frosted pink. Call me old or even old-fashioned, but the color looks great on me. Choose a color that compliments your skin tone (for my pasty white skin, pearl pink is it) and always have that in your purse. Even with the current masking madates, one will always find themselves mask-free.

PS – A pouty look combined with lipstick, no matter what age, always looks good.

Second: Clear skin and white teeth.

Everyone looks good with unblemished skin, no matter what complexion or race you are. And white teeth with a big smile? You’re golden, no matter what your weight is.

Lastly – A great necklace and bracelet.

Learn what side you’re on – silver or gold. I myself am silver. I never, and I mean never, leave the house without a necklace and bracelet. Both, combined with aforementioned, instantly lift your stature to anyone you come in contact with, be it salespersons, waitstaff, etc.

Years ago I read an article that spotlighted a bright young thing who had money and lived the good life in So-Cal. What she said influenced me for the rest of my life.

She said: If you have a great mani, pedi, designer bag and shoes, you’re good to go.

PS – Top it all off with a signature perfume that only you know the name of…

Remember when you heard your mom tell someone you were out “gallivanting” the other night? You just knew she didn’t approve.

Because whoever even says that word – gallivanting – anyway? It’s never used to put the person accused of doing it in a good light nor is it ever said by the person being accused of such a heinous act.

“I went gallivanting the other day in the part. It was so nice!”

“I drove to my friend’s and then we gallivanted off to the bar!”

In my 50 years I’ve never heard of anyone remotely saying anything in that context.

Let’s be real. The accused usually knows the snarky remark, met with its requisite sneer of course, that what they were purportedly doing was having fun without a care in the world, especially and singularly, about the person accusing them of said crime.

So keep your ears open for the word. Or perhaps try to use this word the next time you’re describing a fabulous time you had the previous evening. Then check your audience’s reaction.

Based on their own past misdeeds they may not understand if you had a good time or not.

The past few years my son and daughter have given me an outdoor hanging flower basket for Mother’s Day. It’s something I look forward to, along with the personal messages they include with my card.

This May the basket was filled with bright fuchsia and yellow petunias spilling over the sides. I love when my baskets become completely covered and the flowers resemble a big ball.

I can see it from my home office window, where I spend most of my time.

As I was deadheading the flowers one day, a little bird flew out and startled me. I also started to find evidence of materials that could be used to build a nest. Then came the bird droppings, which were all over my patio furniture. I grumbled as I cleaned up my favorite chair, the one I like to sit on while sipping a glass of wine.

This bird and I were fighting over possession of this plant. Me wanting to keep it gorgeous and full on the outside while she was trying to make it comfortable and safe for her impending brood on the inside.

Another mother was wanting this hanging basket as much as I did.

Then one day I looked inside and spied two little white eggs.

My heart fluttered. Just like I have two kids, I thought.

In all there would be six babies. And after they hatched, they welcomed each morning with their tiny, constant peeping.

I immediately went into grandma mode. Did they have enough to eat? One day I broke up some old bread into small pieces and set them near the basket. But all that did was attract a large black bird who promptly ate them in two gulps.

The flowers are not as full as I like them. My deadheading system has been modified and when watering I make sure only to do so on the opposite side of the nest so as not to drown the little ones.

But my frustration is no longer there as I look forward to the mama bird’s visits. She sits atop the plant hanger and tweets loudly before disappearing into the color.

I smile as I see the flowers rustling, the mom tending to wide open, hungry mouths. I think of my kids when they were young.

All too quickly, as I know, the babies will soon be gone. I’ll miss them, but mostly I’ll miss their mom.

Afterwards I’ll try to resurrect my plant. But if it doesn’t reach it’s crowning glory I’ll be OK, knowing that its inner beauty was so much more fun this year than its outward one.