In Sickness and in Health. In French Fries and in Fruit.

In Sickness and in Health. In French Fries and in Fruit.

Recently, my husband had an itsy health scare. One of those events that make you realize changes need to be made.

Perfect for me. Isn’t that what this year has been about? I’m up for changes in the way our family eats. I’ve been tending my garden and buying organic. Even though that makes a bigger dent each week in my tin cup, our family’s health is worth it right?

Good grief. This is work.

What magic can you work with a naked-as-the-day-she-was-hatched chicken breast using five ingredients, five minutes preparation and five minutes in the oven?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Peas.  I’ve had more peas — as in little green frozen English BBs —  the last two weeks than in the first 23 years of marriage. I’ve had it with peas. Give me the days when I could fry up a hamburger and open a can of kernel corn. Please.

My husband won’t let me do that anymore. Makes me wonder if he wants to live longer?

Lest you think me horrible and you most certainly can, I’ve tried to get him to eat better for decades. Salads, pole beans, quinoa brownies. But now I have to cook each night — think and plan meals – this untold pressure subtracts hours from my day. Maybe we could fast three nights a week?

Imagine my disappointment when I opened a fast food bag he brought home the other day to spy a solitary chargrilled chicken sandwich. NO FRIES. I could always count on his order to snag a few of those first warm crispy ones.

My dietary habits revolved one way for most of my adult life. Around me. I ate my fair share of fruits, vegetables and made sure to limit my daily intake of fried oysters and tartar sauce, all the while reminding my husband to eat better.

Life rolls along and everything is normal, until your spouse shows up after work with tightness in his chest.  Which we took very seriously, and most thankfully, everything checked out fine.

So changes were made. And after eating differently for two weeks, he’s wasting away. Don’t think his fat cells quietly vanished without a fight. They fled kicking and screaming straight to a new host — me. That is what happens when your husband now orders fruit and you have to order the french fries. Why couldn’t this have happened when I was 25 and my metabolism idled high and not at the pace of a nine-year-old walking the last mile to her bedroom on a school night. I can’t even count on those pokey going-to-bed children to supply me the goods. They now request fruit as well.

I never imagined what I wanted all these years would be so annoying. Guess that’s what my husband could say about me.

But he doesn’t. So like my mother said over the phone, “John can’t go anywhere”…because no one else would have you. The last part was my editorializing. I can read between the lines with my mom.

She’s right. I’m all for keeping him around forever. But just between you and me — organic, fat-free, gluten-free, estrogen-free, potato-free, microwavable Tater Tots surely would add untold hours to my day.