In a burst of zeal, I sent “Happy Mother’s Day” texts to many of the mothers in my family, including my daughters, my former brides, my sister, and my nieces. One of my nieces is a physician, someone who gave me a diet that staved off my gout outbreaks, the self-proclaimed “Barbershop Doc,” who offers free blood pressure screenings while we get our hair cut. She also posts important information about men’s and women’s health on a social media site. She is married to my sister’s oldest son, and when I sent her my Mother’s Day cheer, this was her response: “Who is this?” She responded to my explanation by writing that she is a doctor (who) encourages lifestyle changes to have better health and believes that “we are what we eat.” The mature individual in me was overwhelmed by the clown in me, and to the “we are what we eat” statement, I responded, “I am an egg.” When I told my sister of my goofy response to Talaya’s comment, Jaci added, “And a piece of toast!”
Fourteen years ago, I spent some time with my sister as our mother lay dying, and one morning, I went into her kitchen to make myself breakfast. When I came to the table with my plate, Jaci goggled and asked, “What is THAT?!?” She did not consider a slice of buttered toast covered with an egg (over medium) “breakfast.” I had long since pared down my gluttonous morning meal habits, and no longer routinely ate two eggs over, with four pieces of bacon and home fries. And two slices of buttered toast. Now, my breakfasts are of the oatmeal or egg and toast variety. I have begun to spice up the toast with a slice of deli chicken or turkey, and to melt a piece of cheese atop the frying egg, but the great “gorge-a-lot” breakfasts are gone from my life.
When I was the daytime caretaker for my youngest granddaughter, there came a time when Pablum grew passé, and she wanted what she now calls “real food.” Her mother made her scrambled eggs, and I followed that lead, but Myah was curious about the egg I prepared for myself. Lauren told me that Myah started to ask her mother for an egg like the ones eaten by “Clop,” her grandfather. “I want a Clop egg,” was her breakfast request. On a recent visit with me, Myah asked for “a Clop egg and toast.” I was happy to comply, and we each had a plate. Of course, I garnished her plate with fruit, Mom. (Her snack invention is “raw toast” — untoasted bread — and butter.)
I understand what my niece was saying, when she wrote, “we are what we eat.” I grew up eating meals high in fat and cholesterol and did not stop doing that until gout laid me low. Many African-Americans suffer from obesity, high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and our eating habits are one of the main contributors to those health issues. But I have changed my eating habits, including what I consume and the amounts (though I do miss the occasional pleasure of grating a potato, seasoning the tiny strips, and heating a frying pan to make homemade hash browns.)
There are complex issues in the world, some things that we must decide that will have an impact on the way we live; then, there is toast, and an egg. To paraphrase Valentine Michael Smith, the human raised by Martians in Robert A. Heinlein’s novel, Stranger In A Strange Land: I eat not only an egg, but also toast.
cjon3acd@att.net