At Sizzler that night I ordered the Malibu Chicken, a two-piece fried chicken dish blanketed in ham and sealed in melted slices of Monterey Jack cheese food. I had a loaded baked potato plus the all-you-can-eat-salad-bar where I made a spaghetti and meatball taco (add shredded Cheddar cheese food). I’m 18 now, and my parents have stopped being in awe of how much I eat.
When I was nine years old I’d get two Big Macs and a large order of fries with a small Neapolitan milkshake. For a few years Dad would listen to me order, and then look at me in amazement. “You don’t have to prove anything to us. We know you can eat.” He’d plead, trying to talk me into something smaller, like a Happy Meal or two, and not just for my health, but to save money. I was eating like a pregnant woman and I still didn't know where babies came from.
“I know.” I’d snip back in a high, guilty voice. He’d shake his head and avoid eye contact with me while I ate and avoided eye contact with him,too. He would hand me a napkin when I said I was ready to go home. Dad was generally antsy whenever we went out to eat. He just wanted to be at home, in his chair, watching TV and napping with a crunchy snack close by. He was like a cat with a driver’s license and a job that way. After he ate, he’d run his fingers through his full head of gray hair, almost white against his dark rosy face and say, “Janice Anne, why’d ya make me eat so much?” That was how Dad said it was time to go home without sounding bossy to Mom, and that Melrose Place was about to start, and that he’d forgotten to set the VCR.
Later, he’d sit in front of the TV, with his own homemade Coca-Cola, banana, and Butter pecan ice cream malt that got bigger every day (along with his belly).
He’s sort of ignoring me again tonight at Sizzler, but that’s because my mom is talking. “Your dad and I were watching Oprah yesterday..."
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