Mentalpause and Other Midlife Laughs by Laura Jensen Walker

Author:Laura Jensen Walker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: HEA024000, HUM000000
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group

TEN

food for thought

My tastebuds may still be young, but my stomach’s not what it used to be.

I wish my ulcers and I could get together on a mutually satisfactory diet.

Irvin S. Cobb

In my twenties, the only thing that gave me heartburn was men.

Now, in my forties, everything does.

Steak, lobster, cheeseburgers. (All except Big Macs for some reason.)

Even Miracle Whip.

Rats. There go my tuna fish sandwiches.

Problem is, I have the tastebuds of a twenty-year-old but the stomach of a seventy-year-old.

It’s called acid reflux.

Most people take Tums, Rolaids, or some other antacid for this midlife-and-more problem.

Not me.

I have my own home remedy that works really well.

Here’s what you do:

You take a great big bite of a greasy bacon cheeseburger or a steak dripping with butter and salt, chew just four or five times, and then while this yummy, artery-clogging red meat is still making its fattening way down to your stomach, you suddenly start beating the center of your chest with your fist while simultaneously expelling fast puffs of breath from your mouth.

Michael calls it my Tarzan act.

But it’s really more like Tarzan-Lamaze.

Caution: The Tarzan-Lamaze act works best at home. Performing it in public isn’t very ladylike. Besides, in a restaurant, you’re apt to encounter an overly solicitous waiter just itching to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

Therefore, in the interest of embarrassing-dining-heroics prevention and polite society, I’ve come up with a kinder, gentler version.

Ladylike-renditon of the Tarzan-Lamaze act:

Take a smaller bite of a greasy bacon cheeseburger or a steak dripping with butter and salt, chew six or seven times, and then while this yummy, artery-clogging red meat is still making its fattening way down to your genteel stomach, start unobtrusively patting the center of your bosom with your open palm—gently, oh-so gently—while simultaneously expelling quiet, slower puffs of breath from your mouth.

If you do it discreetly enough, people will think you’re having a hot flash.

Otherwise, just order chicken.

I’ve become the queen of chicken.

Baked chicken, broiled chicken, grilled chicken, rotisserie chicken, chicken and rice, chicken and noodles, chicken-and-broccoli casserole, chicken a la king, chicken surprise . . .

Chicken is the best friend of the heartburn impaired.

Closely followed by turkey.

But I have to tell you, this girl—who’s always liked a little spice in her life: chili, enchiladas, chimichangas, chips and salsa, lasagna, and curry—is getting pretty bored with poultry.

Don’t get me wrong.

I adore turkey at Thanksgiving—hand over that drumstick! —and turkey sandwiches afterwards, but enough is enough.

Last year, we had Thanksgiving at my mom’s and with our big crowd, there wasn’t much turkey remaining for leftovers, so Michael went out the next day and bought our own—an eighteen-pounder.

The following week, we repeated Thanksgiving dinner at our house, inviting a friend to join us for the feast.

It was delicious. Nothing in the world like turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy—all homemade.

And for Michael, peas.

He loves peas with his mashed potatoes and gravy. For him, it’s just not Thanksgiving without peas—which has created some pretty funny misunderstandings at our family holiday table. First, it was my sister

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