I’m turning into my Father. No, I’m not adopting formal three-piece mens’ suits, with correct tie, nor am I turning bald, nor correcting my posture to ramrod stiffness.
But I’ve suddenly realised that I’ve adopted his habit of eating the identical breakfast , day in and day out. My Dad unvaryingly consumed fried egg and bacon, every day. There might occasionally be a slice of fried bread added to this gourmet feast, or a daring fried tomato, but by and large, it was fried egg and bacon. Back in the Olden Days that I’m speaking of, we knew (and cared) nothing about the evils of oil, fat, cholesterol, cardiac health and the like. Consequently, Dad’s plate was a happy culinary skating rink of oil/fat, which I suppose was the entire point of a hearty, satisfying breakfast.
My daily e&b is a very different affair. I have an efficient little bright pink, non-stick, one-egg frying pan. From the day I bought the damn thing I have loathed the colour, but comforted myself that, because it was manufactured in China, it wouldn’t last long. Wrong. Two years later, it’s doing just fine and the Teflon remains as durable as ever. So my fried eggs wouldn’t know what oil and grease meant, not even if you drew them a diagram. Ditto my carefully trimmed bacon slices, grilled, and carefully blotted with kitchen paper. But at the end of the day, I’m eating fried egg and bacon for breakfast, at least six days out of seven. Purged of fat and calories, they may be, but they’re still satisfying. Particularly with a smidgeon of that other forbidden substance – tomato sauce.
I sound like a regular food Nazi don’t I? Trust me, when you’re diagnosed as a diabetic, you turn into one. And maybe I should add that my Dad was felled by a mighty stroke in his early sixties – just possibly his fat-clogged arteries may have had something to do with it.
I remember my Mother once remarking to me, somewhat sourly : “You’re your Father’s daughter.” Her tone wasn’t complimentary. Subsequently I’ve puzzled over this remark, but her shrouded meaning went to the grave with her. And when you’re younger you tend not to cross-examine your parents. At least, I didn’t. Now I wish I had!