Patterns

Monarch butterflies know that they should migrate to Mexico in the winter,

I learned that I should share unequally with men when I eat food.

I watched Archie Bunker's shows and memorized the theme song. "Those Were the Days" by Lee Adams and Charles Strous. I loved Edith's strained voice as she sang,

"Boy, the way Glenn Miller played. Songs that made the Hit Parade.

Guys like us, we had it made. Those were the days.

Didn't need no welfare state. Everybody pulled his weight.

Gee, our old LaSalle ran great. Those were the days.

And you know who you were then. Girls were girls and men were men.

Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.

People seemed to be content. Fifty dollars paid the rent.

Freaks were in a circus tent. Those were the days.

Take a little Sunday spin, go to watch the Dodgers win.

Have yourself a dandy day that cost you under a fin.

Hair was short and skirts were long. Kate Smith really sold a song.

I don't know just what went wrong. Those Were The Days."

I grew up when Archie and Edith sang this song and when families ate together. Mom prepared and controlled the food; most of the time, she plated up the food at the stove and passed us our portions. I remember her filling each plate, turning around, and placing it in front of us. Saturday night was always brown beans with sliced bananas for dessert. I have figured out that Saturday afternoon was shopping day, so the supper had to be quick, and there isn't anything quicker than a can of beans heated up. The bananas were just fresh from the store and hard to keep, so they were a logical choice for dessert. We never had a choice and wouldn't dream of questioning her choices, but I sure did hate those beans.

Occasionally we had special meals with all the food on the table, Sunday Supper, Birthdays, Holidays, etc. Mom sliced the meat, the gravy was in the gravy boat with the fancy gravy spoon, the potatoes mashed, and the vegetables had a pat of butter on top. Sometimes these meals included pickles, but nothing was fancy except the dishes. All the food was in the proper serving bowl. I never could figure out why Mom went to all of this trouble. Serving dishes were in front of my father. He helped himself first, then passed the dish to my brothers, then the girls. If someone went without, it was in that order. There was one quart of milk at each meal, and often it was almost gone by the time it got past the boys; the girls had tea. A whole chicken is cut into two breasts, two legs, two thighs, two wings, and two backs, and as it is passed around the table, the backs and wings were left for the girls.

When I began dating, the pattern continued. I ordered the least expensive item I could find; I never emptied my plate, and my date got the leftovers. My hand went into the popcorn box at the show once for his three or four times. This migration of food to the male species continued into my marriage.

Raising children made me question the fairness of this pattern, and I decided to try to change it. At the family table, I made the fair distribution of the food the rule. I don't want anyone to go hungry, so I am famous for overproducing: if there are eight people, I cook for twelve, and if there are four, I cook for eight.

When my husband and I go out to a restaurant for special occasions, it is the same restaurant we went to as teenagers—eating at a restaurant is when, like the monarch, my habits kicked in. The order is usually the same, an appetizer of deep-fried vegetables and cheese while we drink wine and wait for our pizza. We always order a carafe of wine, and I have one glass, and he has the rest. It is a standing joke that I get too mouthy if I drink more than one glass. My husband's favorite is the all meat pizza; I don't know if I have a favorite pizza. The appetizer is shared unequally on almost all occasions. The basket contains four pieces of mushrooms, zucchini, cauliflower, and mozzarella cheese, all piping hot and golden brown. The cheese, too hot to eat, usually waits on the plate until the last. I hesitate and eat two of his least favorite vegetables and one of the mushrooms and one of the cheese sticks, because I know he likes those the best. This pattern is our pattern.

Saturday night, we double-dated with a couple we have known since high school. It was about two hours later than our usual dinnertime, and I was hungry. So, we ordered a bottle of wine to share and two baskets of appetizers. My friend poured me a second glass of wine, and of course, I relaxed and talked a lot. It was nearly time for the pizza to arrive when my husband announced.

"That's the last time I will ever share an appetizer with you."

I was shocked and looked at the plate and realized I had shared the appetizer. I had dared to eat two of the cheese pieces.

"I finally had my fair share." I giggled. He even told the waitress that I had eaten his share and ordered his own so he wouldn't have "to share with her." Our friends laughed and said it happens all the time at their house.

John put his arm around my husband's shoulder and said: "It's not a man's world anymore, Sam; get used to it."

Sam ate most of the pizza when it came. I wasn't I've thought a lot about that night at the restaurant. But I can't be too angry with my husband because we both made the unwritten (rules for us). I need to figure out what kind of pizza is my favorite pizza?