Sitting just inside of the semi-open-air outer room of one of the hotel’s two restaurants…
The storm clouds are gathering (as predicted) and I watch the skies with an extra measure of anticipation. A big-un is a-coming and I can’t wait. Okay – here’s the denoument:
My body is reacting to the changing barometric pressure. There must be some ancient primordial benefit to absorbing moisture in one’s body as the rains approach. Try as I may, however, I can’t imagine what that benefit is. I do, nevertheless, feel like a balloon being inflated. Perhaps I’ll become airborne.
Noted: I see yet another and then another individual who would probably tip the scales at 300 or more pounds. I’ve been observing this for two days. At first, I was just pleased to see that I was far from the fattest person in the room. Now, I am more interested in this as a sociological trend or a locale-linked trait. Has the word gone out to the large-sized community? “Here in Bermuda, fatties are welcome.” I’m good with that.
In my dawning awareness, I feel a communication from a VERY close, now deceased relative (NK). He’s pleased with the fare and the portion sizes. He is, however, a little peeved with me. “Get your elbows off the table,” I hear distinctly inside my head. “Yes, sir!” I reply, with alacrity.
For much of my life my father was a serious eater. Meals were not just something that one engaged in in order to survive. No. Au contraire. He was living to eat, not eating to live. Mass quantities of all manner of edibles were prepared and consumed every day. I recall there never being much in the refrigerator – because whatever was there got eaten. It wasn’t even safe to sit still for too long; you might wind up with a Béarnaise sauce dripping into your eyes. Sometimes I thought I saw my own dear father sizing me up – Would I fit into the large roasting pan?
Okay, that’s really creepy and a bridge too far. But just barely.
I did acquire my love of food from the little big man. He was 5 ft. 4 in. tall and at times weighed more than the scale could measure. He was also a first rate chef. My mother seldom had to prepare dinner. He was on it like barbeque sauce on spare ribs.
From cook-outs at a nearby state park, when I was young…where 3-inch thick sirloins and entire watermelons were just a few of the staples, to grilled dinner for fifteen (with both indoor and outdoor cooking going on simultaneously) when I was an adult…to large scale parties with more hors d’oevres than one could count or even imagine, the preparing, sharing and enjoying of food was a main focus of his life.
Sometimes, when I’ve cooked a really good meal, I can feel his approval. I know he’s watching me – especially on Thanksgiving, our family’s high holy day.