I've heard the french fries singing
Feb. 21st, 2004 12:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbcFood, glorious food. Live to eat or eat to live? Yeth, it’th twoo, I masticate. Often in public. Sometimes in groups.
Being bearesque, and coming from a (paternal) family where atrocious eating habits and Type II (late onset) diabetes are birthrights, I eventually realized that Our Family’s take on food and eating isn’t entirely normal. to be fair, Da and his siblings are first generation Americans, and their Oirish parents felt a full meal was evidence of prosperity--particularly meats. When the Oirish cookbook only offers boiling, roasting and frying--and there were 8 kids plus any number of newly emigrated Oirish relatives on the chesterfield--the almighty prawtee (potato in Oirish) was a dietary staple as a matter of necessity.
Nanny: Paddy, I’m pregnant again.
Pop: Ah, put another potato in the pot.
Nanny: glares
My siblings and I also inherited our Da’s eating habits: grab it and cram it down your gob, or someone else will. We were, however, more picky about what we’d eat and not eat[Is maith an t-anlann an t-ocras - hunger is a good sauce]. I’d sit hours at the table avoiding drinking my milk. Kathleen became a vegetarian at 11, and would compost her veggies and starch (Ma had brought rice into our diet) into a Close Encounters sort of mound. Mike and I would only eat white meat chicken. And creamed tuna made me hurl--even the smell of it--so I sat outside or in the basement during cooking, eating and clean up. And ate a frozen pizza for my supper. While were observant Catholics, we didn’t eat fish on Fridays. Ma hated the smell of frying fish, so we opted for macaroni and cheese (en canadois, Kraft Dinner). In high school, all 4 of us worked at the local McDonalds, where we learned the bliss of fresh crisp fries, ate burgers for our meals (Kathleen ate a cheeseburger minus the cheese), and I discovered the joy of Drive Thru at 02h00 after a night drinking ice cold Bud.
Carbs, fried foods, ground beef, beer. In short, we treated our bodies like garbage bins. The meals were cost effective for our parents, easy to cook for Ma, and compared favourably with what our peers--our cousins, by the way--got in their homes. The one thing most of us didn’t take up is smoking (of the cousins who grew up in the States, only one smokes; 4 of 6 who grew up in Ireland do).
Why the traipse down mammary lane? Well in a week I’ll turn 40. I’m currently 1,67m (5’6”) and 77kg (170#). I don’t look that bad, but according to most wellness standards I’m obese. My cholesterol ratio is a bit high. Lifestyle-wise I don’t smoke or drink alcohol. Nor do I take enough exercise or eat properly. I’m working on both, by swimming/body surfing at least twice weekly (I have a wet suit for the “winter”), and modifying my food intake. But when the stress is up, I’m back at McDo’s, or Burger King. When I was 17 I could treat my body like shite and get away with it. But the clock is ticking.
Type II diabetes is usually triggered by weight gain; those with a family history of diabetes can largely avoid it by keeping excess weight off. In our family, male diabetics do pretty well, while the women don’t. Because the men each have/had a wife to monitor their food intake; the women, conversely, don’t want ‘the family to suffer” by forcing everyone to change their eating habits. As a result, they often don’t bother fixing a different meal for themselves. 3 boys in Da’s family, all diabetics all reasonably well managed (plus Pop); Da’s the exception because Ma’s too unwell to monitor him. 4 of 5 sisters have diabetes: one has lost half a leg, 3 have lost several toes, one is legally blind. It’s really dire.
Vis à vis the bear thing: I’m all about fighting body fascism and celebrating realistic--and diverse--body types. But the bear scene (my experiences anyway) isn’t exactly a great place to find support for examining these sorts of concerns. More often than not I hear guys validating the sorts of habits I’m trying to mitigate (rather than break; I am a realist and know how fooked deprivation can be) these patterns. Or they look at me as say “you’re skinny,” which in a room with several guys 150kg+, is relatively true. I’m not saying I can’t decide these things for myself, or that it’s anyone else’s problem but mine. But with respect to wellness, the bear scene to me seems fairly treacherous.
I’m sitting here at midnight, trying to unwind, but I could easily drive to the Quicky Mart, buy a big fookin’ bag of Lays and some French onion dip, crack open an ice cold can of Coke, and watch bad TV. I’m not Jonesing, but I’m hankerin’. A calling I dare not answer nearly as much as I do.
Is it just me?
Being bearesque, and coming from a (paternal) family where atrocious eating habits and Type II (late onset) diabetes are birthrights, I eventually realized that Our Family’s take on food and eating isn’t entirely normal. to be fair, Da and his siblings are first generation Americans, and their Oirish parents felt a full meal was evidence of prosperity--particularly meats. When the Oirish cookbook only offers boiling, roasting and frying--and there were 8 kids plus any number of newly emigrated Oirish relatives on the chesterfield--the almighty prawtee (potato in Oirish) was a dietary staple as a matter of necessity.
Nanny: Paddy, I’m pregnant again.
Pop: Ah, put another potato in the pot.
Nanny: glares
My siblings and I also inherited our Da’s eating habits: grab it and cram it down your gob, or someone else will. We were, however, more picky about what we’d eat and not eat[Is maith an t-anlann an t-ocras - hunger is a good sauce]. I’d sit hours at the table avoiding drinking my milk. Kathleen became a vegetarian at 11, and would compost her veggies and starch (Ma had brought rice into our diet) into a Close Encounters sort of mound. Mike and I would only eat white meat chicken. And creamed tuna made me hurl--even the smell of it--so I sat outside or in the basement during cooking, eating and clean up. And ate a frozen pizza for my supper. While were observant Catholics, we didn’t eat fish on Fridays. Ma hated the smell of frying fish, so we opted for macaroni and cheese (en canadois, Kraft Dinner). In high school, all 4 of us worked at the local McDonalds, where we learned the bliss of fresh crisp fries, ate burgers for our meals (Kathleen ate a cheeseburger minus the cheese), and I discovered the joy of Drive Thru at 02h00 after a night drinking ice cold Bud.
Carbs, fried foods, ground beef, beer. In short, we treated our bodies like garbage bins. The meals were cost effective for our parents, easy to cook for Ma, and compared favourably with what our peers--our cousins, by the way--got in their homes. The one thing most of us didn’t take up is smoking (of the cousins who grew up in the States, only one smokes; 4 of 6 who grew up in Ireland do).
Why the traipse down mammary lane? Well in a week I’ll turn 40. I’m currently 1,67m (5’6”) and 77kg (170#). I don’t look that bad, but according to most wellness standards I’m obese. My cholesterol ratio is a bit high. Lifestyle-wise I don’t smoke or drink alcohol. Nor do I take enough exercise or eat properly. I’m working on both, by swimming/body surfing at least twice weekly (I have a wet suit for the “winter”), and modifying my food intake. But when the stress is up, I’m back at McDo’s, or Burger King. When I was 17 I could treat my body like shite and get away with it. But the clock is ticking.
Type II diabetes is usually triggered by weight gain; those with a family history of diabetes can largely avoid it by keeping excess weight off. In our family, male diabetics do pretty well, while the women don’t. Because the men each have/had a wife to monitor their food intake; the women, conversely, don’t want ‘the family to suffer” by forcing everyone to change their eating habits. As a result, they often don’t bother fixing a different meal for themselves. 3 boys in Da’s family, all diabetics all reasonably well managed (plus Pop); Da’s the exception because Ma’s too unwell to monitor him. 4 of 5 sisters have diabetes: one has lost half a leg, 3 have lost several toes, one is legally blind. It’s really dire.
Vis à vis the bear thing: I’m all about fighting body fascism and celebrating realistic--and diverse--body types. But the bear scene (my experiences anyway) isn’t exactly a great place to find support for examining these sorts of concerns. More often than not I hear guys validating the sorts of habits I’m trying to mitigate (rather than break; I am a realist and know how fooked deprivation can be) these patterns. Or they look at me as say “you’re skinny,” which in a room with several guys 150kg+, is relatively true. I’m not saying I can’t decide these things for myself, or that it’s anyone else’s problem but mine. But with respect to wellness, the bear scene to me seems fairly treacherous.
I’m sitting here at midnight, trying to unwind, but I could easily drive to the Quicky Mart, buy a big fookin’ bag of Lays and some French onion dip, crack open an ice cold can of Coke, and watch bad TV. I’m not Jonesing, but I’m hankerin’. A calling I dare not answer nearly as much as I do.
Is it just me?
