We were at Koshy’s for lunch the other day and we had all ordered different things to eat. The kid’s were tucking into a nice, well-done Tandoori chicken. The husband was watching his (rapidly disappearing) waistline and eating some grilled stuff (on another note – it’s so unfair! how do men lose weight faster than we women manage to put it on?)
My baked fish was on its way. A whole 8 * 6″ casserole of it – my most favourite dish at this old-is-gold restaurant. It arrived a little later than the rest of the food – all that cheese has to melt and form a brown, crusty layer that is just right. I didn’t mind. We laughed and talked and I picked at their food.
I have the biggest appetite in our family. I am quite proud of that fact actually. I can eat most average-sized men under the table. And I really don’t care if it’s not pretty. The best part was that in the old days it wouldn’t show. Blame it on the constitution and all that. But there are no free lunches (sob). And so today, I watch my portions like a good girl and (mostly) eat all the right stuff.
The fish arrives. I look at it with lustful eyes and dig in. It’s hot, salty and cheesy. Just the way I like it. There is silence for a bit as we all eat. Bliss.
Then a small, high-pitched voice pipes in.
‘Mama, you really like it a lot, no?’
I freeze, serving spoon poised to take my 3rd helping, as I look into the (wide) eyes of my son. He of course, hates all food. And fish and cheese? Right at the bottom of his food chart. Shock at how any rational being would want to eat this yucky, gloopy, thing is mixed with sheer awe at the quantities I am demolishing.
What can a girl do?
I laugh and admit, that yes, I really like it, even as I finish the 3rd helping.
It’s also my last helping now.
I longingly look at the last bit lying forlornly in its warm dish and it looks back at me with accusing eyes. I ignore it.
‘What’s for dessert?’ I ask instead.