Portable Feast

 I take some good-natured ribbing from my wife about sharing food. 

"Would you like a bite of mine?" she asks me sweetly.

At which point I tend to respond in the way that I have for all of these years, long before I was in any sort of committed relationship: "Thank you, no. I ordered the thing on the menu that appealed to me. It is currently sitting in front of me and I intend to enjoy it to the fullest. I am pretty sure that if I had wanted to try what you're having I would have ordered that instead." 

This makes me a cad, I know. Or worse. 

I have made peace with that. And, what's more, it seems that my wife has as well. 

When we order Chinese food, the suggestion of "family style" is lost on me. I'll have the sweet and sour pork thank you very much. The vegetable surprise will have to remain an unknown treasure for me until that is the only thing on the menu. 

This comes from years of searching out the cheeseburger in restaurants across the globe. Only in the second half of my life have I opened myself up to the idea of expanding my palate. It also didn't help that I grew up with a crew of friends who made eating pizza a race. It was important to eat with one hand while the other was poised to grab the next slice. Having two brothers made dinner time a contest to be sure that we each got our fair share. Just keep your hands and feet away from their mouths. As an adult among my friends I was anointed with "The Thresher." 

Share my food? Who knows when I will eat again? This is about survival, baby. 

Which makes things like potlucks a sum zero equation. "Would you like to sample some of my casserole?" 

No. I'll have the hamburgers I brought and grilled myself. Thank you. 

Immature? 

You bet. 

But I don't go hungry.