Food Revelations

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My mother had me at the ripe old age of sixteen. She actually turned sixteen 10 days before I was born. My grandma had my mother when she was 40. Quite the age gap, wouldn't you say? Anyways, I got stuck growing up along with my mother. Grandma all of a sudden had two "babies" to oversee, making sure we were protected from all the horrors of the outside world, such as obesity and bad nutrition. She gave it her best, but sadly we succombed to the evils of poor eating habits. Grandma's favorite thing to do was put everything, and I do mean everything, in little bowls to eat. Ready made portion control in her eyes. In every food related picture they have of me in the family album I am grazing out of several miniature bowls. One would contain some sort of fruit, perhaps grapes or apple slices, another might have some corn curls or popcorn, a third, pudding or jello, still runny from lack of adequate refrigeration time. Of course, I would have a small bread plate with a few pieces of meat upon it, but the focus was always on the little bowls. As I got older, I rebelled somewhat against these "bowls" for as my appetite grew with age, those bowls stayed exactly the same, a constant. I began to search for the items in the bowls, mostly just the corn curls, potato chips, and such, in their original state. This was no simple task, for Grandma caught on to my cleverness and would hide the canisters of snacks in somewhat perilous locations for a little girl. I fell off many a kitchen chair and even the occaional countertop in my pursuit for the forbidden carbs. My "THUMP" as I hit the floor or sometimes even just the mere rustling of a bag would bring Grandma running into the kitchen to see what I had snatched. I, younger and more agile, would retreat down into the basement, gobbling as fast as I could with every step, knowing it would be snatched away in a matter of seconds. Thus, the first seeds of a food issue in a girls life are planted. I still crave the occasional corn curl or Dorito, and sometimes I hide them in the highest cabinet in our small kitchen, over the refrigerator, and as I pull a kitchen chair over to get the bag down I have to wonder if I suddenly sprinted into the basement would my bewildered husband would pursue me and snatch away the bag? Sadly, I know he would not, and that even if he would it would not be the same as those days long ago, when I would risk my ass for a few blissful, although treacherous, bites.