Friday Report: Living large in the USA |

Friday Report: Living large in the USA

Jon de Vos / The Friday Report
Fraser, CO Colorado

Losing weight is on the tip of everyone’s scales these days. Our waistlines have become so large that no actual sunlight reaches U.S. soil anymore.

Shedding pounds is a growing concern around the entire circumference of the nation but it’s especially troubling when it strikes at home. I complained that my jeans shrank in the washer but, oddly, my wife saw it differently. After she discussed it at length, “we” decided to “watch” what we ate. While I was supportive and agreeable on the outside, inside I was squealing like a mouse one step ahead of a puma.

I breathed deeply, summoning my inner chi to portray the detached calm every husband resorts to in grave emergencies. “I love that idea,” I finally said, speaking in the dulcet tones we reserve for the mentally disturbed.

Voicing my whole-hearted support of her delusion, I went so far as to drive to the market for reduced-calorie pet food for our dogs. On the way to the store, I nearly collapsed from a piercing hunger pang brought on by a diet-not-yet-begun. For medicinal purposes, I stopped for a bacon cheeseburger and fries, “watching” every morsel as it disappeared. Pain gone. Every meal is a happy meal if you do it right.

Over the next several weeks, thanks largely to adult supervision (wife), I navigated through a teeming swamp of cottage cheese and meandered through dense forests of celery. I grudgingly dove into the river of culinary monotony and found it teeming with broiled fish and chicken, lying limp and pale on a bed of roughage with a hearty spritz of lemon juice. In my wife’s new regime, a shrimp salad was the portion, not the ingredients. But slowly I began to see results: I was growing crabbier by the day.

It’s gone on now for more than a month, so you’ll perhaps appreciate my surprise when, unexpectedly and without begging, my wife began concocting a tiny club sandwich before my eyes. I misted over a bit in gastronomic gratitude for her thoughtfulness. I watched adoringly as she cut a piece of pita bread into whimsical triangles and slathered them with a oregano-infused goat cheese adorned with a sprightly sprig of cilantro, apparently for no reason but the simple joy of epicurean achievement. My God, but I love that woman!

Next came delightful layers of Black Forest ham, covered with a thick artful wedge of Lorraine Swiss cheese. I wiped drool from the corner of my mouth as she laid down a final swipe of garlic mayonnaise. With a grand flourish, the whole thing was topped with a large dollop of … peanut butter?

I blurted without thinking, “Ham? And peanut butter? With goat cheese? That’s just so wrong!”

“Oh,” she replied, “heck no, the squirrels are crazy for it,” and she reached down by her feet and hoisted two Havahart live animal traps onto the counter. With a steady hand, she deposited her sandwiches squarely on the bait platforms of each of them.

I stared in horror for several moments before uttering, “What have you done?”

She was puzzled, “You didn’t think these were for us, did you? Have you forgotten we had lunch just hours ago?”

“I remembered,” I said, “I was just contemplating a life where the outside rodents live better than I do.”

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