Wendy Reichental When not working as a secretary for the prestigious McGill University, Wendy Reichental spends her time writing about things that irk her and wishing she could do this full time. In addition to enjoying writing, she enjoys giving her husband a good foot workout as she is a bonafide reflexologist. She holds a B.A. and Diploma in Family Life Education from McGill University. Tell A Friend About Us:

What Eats Me!
By Wendy Reichental

W hen I married my husband I knew that our families were, shall we say, unique, but no where did this seem more apparent than at our mutual family dinners. My parents being from Eastern Europe have the unfortunate ingrained mentality that food equals survival. The opposite can be said of my husband and his family who are born Canadians. Eating with my family is something you do with appetite, gusto and relish. Over at his family, you’re lucky to spot any relish on the table! Condiments are rare, and rarer still is the messy kind of down-home eating where guards are down, and I’m not just talking napkins here, but where you can truly be your authentic self. At his family functions, dinner is where you sit up straight, position a cloth napkin promptly on your lap, mind your Ps and Qs, and navigate your way through an abundance of unnecessary cutlery. I’ve had to acclimatize to these differences but I thought it might be entertaining to serve up a few here and perhaps purge my frustrations once and for all!

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A typical dinner with my husband’s side of the family begins with the announcement that no ingredients went into the food we are about to not eat and enjoy! Ok, I’m being slightly facetious but somewhat accurate. His family is extremely calorie-count conscious, and sometimes I’m not sure if it’s for health benefits or simply about keeping up appearances. But in any case, I sit at the table and start slowly counting on mute mode in my head FOUR...THREE...TWO...ONE...and BINGO! On cue, someone declares what new food groups they are currently pooh poohing and completely avoiding. Wishing I could avoid dinner, but unable to, I am instead seen pilfering for whatever food I can find and wolfing it down like a ravenous lunatic. While I search for a dish, the others are busy dishing about what exorbitant non-meal they recently sampled and probably did not even finish at this f-a-b-u-l-o-u-s new restaurant. This entails a most animated description of something sparse, or raw, adorned with a single sprig of chive, presented on an oversized square white plate, no doubt with an air of arrogance on the side. Meanwhile, my stomach continues to gurgle and I feel empty.

In contrast, dinner with my family involves someone welcoming us at the door with a food stained apron, and the house exploding with mouth-watering savoring aromas. No sooner are we seated, my mother has begins her usual badgering battle with my husband about why he won’t sample the appetizers, have any chicken soup or have seconds of everything! Also heard are the sounds of gulping, slurping, and burping all performed at once and with relative ease and theatrics. It’s my family’s version of “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” - only here we call it “Chomping Together, Harmful Digestion”. When dessert is offered, my husband can be heard once again staunchily refusing my mother’s spiel for a cup of hot tea and homemade warm compote. The poor guy doesn’t stand a chance against my family and their obsession with food - eating it and sharing it - above all else.

It’s at this point when I feel completely full! Full of awareness about how different my husband and I are in relation to our upbringing with food and how these experiences have shaped our personalities and who we are today. For instance, I tend to be more accommodating and overly eager to make our guests feel at home and doing so with food is what I do best. My husband on the other hand believes that if someone is thirsty they can mosey along to our fridge and help themselves to a drink. In my parents' home that would be unheard of, a sacrilege! My mother is always following us to the door, holding out a package of the comfort food leftovers she insists we take home, sparing me from cooking for a few days. Hugs and kisses are exchanged and we finally make it out albeit quite satiated. The thing is food has a binding effect (bananas anyone?), and it also brings a family together. I strongly believe it should be a pleasing unpretentious experience leaving you with no bitter aftertaste or craving something more substantial afterwards.

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