Down the Hatch

The day I was diagnosed with acid reflux marked the start of a pivotal period in my life.No longer able to digest a cheeseburger in 20 minutes, I became consumed with sadness and a new sense of mortality. What would be the next of my organs to fail me?. Was my svelte physique already half out-the-door? Reflux really got me to thinking: what role has food played in my life if not the lead? I've found in my twenty three years that food is categorically cheaper and more effective than the fifty minute hour at your local therapist.

My father was raised with one priority in mind: food. Not it's consumption simply, but having enough. Growing up a Russian immigrant with holocaust survivors for parents marked his attitude permanently, and to this day he fears there not being enough for my family. Of course, it's not all about just food, really, and though my dad is in better physical shape than I am, I would consider his condition akin to an eating disorder. If the dinner table appears slightly bare to him, my father will refuse to indulge himself because he is afraid there won't be enough for everyone, and this usually leads to fights with mom. She's tired of hearing it from him.

"Natan, why can't you just relax and eat?' she'll say. 'If there isn't enough we will make more."

"I'm not asking for so much,' he'll respond. 'It's okay if we have leftovers, Is it so bad if there's some extra?"

When I was a younger version of myself, I didn't understand the importance of sharing - i took "extra" for granted. During a ritual Mcdonalds meal with my mother and sister, I snapped at mom for taking several of my french fries. I'm not sure if she was testing me, but I failed regardless. My punishment was to finish the Big Mac, eat my own fries, and then eat my mothers fries.

I've learned my lesson by now, and these days I prefer hunger to excess, and sharing to hoarding , understandably. And Friday night Shabbat dinners have always been symbolic of that sharing and family unity for me, as each weekend comes with the requisite meal from Babi Klara; my grandmother has just the right ingredients to fatten us all up. During the car ride to Forest hills, queens, my mother father and sister are all usually starving for some Jewish soul food cooked up by my Russian grandmother: potato kugel, potato latkes, chicken and gravy, chicken soup, and a smattering of other dishes wait for us wrapped in tin foil.

And when we are finally fed, it is like being tucked in snugly to sleep. My grandmother doesn't sit until each course has been served, but makes sure everyone is eating. "You aren't eating nothing," she will undoubtedly whine to me, even though my third serving of meat in tomato sauce has just vanished from the orange greasiness of my dinner plate. "Eat somethink," she'll plead. It's really useless to argue with a Jewish grandmother because she's not out to argue. She just wants you a little chubby. When I was in my athletic phase in high school I'd always disappoint her with my lack of body fat--"I don't know" she'd repeat in a tsk tsk fashion to herself, bobbing her head slightly.

These days it's more risky for me to fill up like I used to. Enough servings of potato kugel and apple juice and I'm holding my stomach with an uncomfortable smirk. My intestines churn as if I've just swallowed sone bricks and cement, and it feels a lot like love, at least the way I know it. And my father doesn't complain because there's more than enough food for us for sure, and I'll push my chair out softly and squeeze past him. He's eating turkey necks(gross) and never fails to laugh as I amble like the Michelin Man to the couch. He'll join me, but only after eating for another ten or fifteen minutes. My parents tease me for always falling asleep in moving vehicles, but I tell you it takes far less effort to conk out on my grandma's sofa after fried potato pastries and chicken noodle soup.