Nehaveigur

When you are a kid, eating gets you respect. My siblings and I had a grandmotherly neighbor who took care of us when our parents were away. She loved to cook and few things made her happier than watching us eat. This become even more pronounced once she was diagnosed with diabetes and couldn’t eat the rich Austrian dishes of her creation any more, instead taking pleasure in feeding them to us: Potato bakes, pork chops, cakes, puddings, cookies…

As I got older, things got competitive. My cousin being on his fourth helping and me only on the third was a clear threat to my status as the family eating champion and not something I was able to let pass unchallenged. Going from there to eating competitions is a logical progression. Many of the Thanksgiving dinners I’ve been to were proto eating contests.

Nowadays, I try to eat less. In recent years, this seems to get easier, probably because my body recognizes that I don’t need that many calories, or maybe because it doesn’t get me the respect it used to. I know this is good and healthy, but I also feel the sting of defeat: I’m losing the eating contest with myself. It’s like walking away from a fight: Probably the smart thing to do, but it’s also what cowards do. Yes, I do admire those heroes who vanquish their enemies by eating 76 hot dogs with buns in 10 minutes.