In a segment of a series I was watching on Hulu, a character made reference to the “clean plate club” as he instructed another character about a peculiar torture. I was surprised to hear the term, as I’d never before, heard it outside of my childhood. My father frequently used the term as he demanded that his children finish their food. I thought that the club was exclusive to the Woods family, wherein membership was mandatory. I can still hear my father’s growl as he fixed a meal, saying “nize rize (nice rice).” I did not like rice, which we often had seven days a week; sometimes, the rice was joined by beans. We children — three at the time — were not permitted to leave the table until we had cleaned our plates. My brother and sister sat with me, a steaming pile of rice on the plate before each of us; I was probably eight, my brother seven and my sister six. My brother idolized me, would do anything that I did, follow me anywhere, and I was horrible to him.
One evening, we three (I don’t remember my parents eating with us) sat at the table, eating rice. I was miserable as I contemplated the white pile before me; Jaci (my sister) and Jerri were making progress with their plates, and I pictured myself alone at the table, slogging through the rice pile while they sat happily in front of the TV. In a desperate attempt to make it more palatable, I took some mustard and smeared it on a few grains of the long grain. It tasted terrible, but I faked delight, urging my siblings to try it.
Did I mention that my brother would follow me anywhere, do anything I did? We were jumping on the bed one night (an expressly forbidden activity) when I decided to climb under the bed while Jerri jumped. I laid on my back with my hands on the bed springs, feeling them press downward with each jump. I scrabbled out and onto the bed, telling Jerri how cool the feeling was. He immediately dove onto the floor and went under the bed. I jumped and jumped until the bed collapsed on top of him. I immediately bolted for the living room and sat in front of the TV with my sister, trying to ignore the muffled cries of my bed-buried brother. Despite this misadventure, my brother followed me again, smearing great gobs of mustard on his rice. My sister and I sat in front of the TV while my brother gagged down the miserable concoction I had invented, for the rules of the Clean Plate Club did not allow him to leave a grain uneaten.
In 1917 the federal government passed the Food and Fuel Control Act, which was to combat wartime food shortages by regulating the “distribution, export, import, purchase and storage of food.” Citizens were urged to sign pledge cards, and to forgo waste by adhering to the “doctrine of the clean plate.” The club was revived in 1947, after World War II, with club members urged to curb waste to “send food to the starving post-war populace of Europe.” I imagine that my father learned of the club in 1947; his first three children helped to send a lot of food to Europe.
The Clean Plate Club was disbanded long ago, but old indoctrinations die hard; I take manageable portions of food and seldom leave a bite on my plate. I have learned to love rice, though, and each grain falls to my need to clean my plate.
cjon3acd@att.net