No one in my family reads this column unless I compel them. I’m entertaining subtle new ways to “plant” it around the house. I’ve considered taping it to the refrigerator or microwave, and while that technique is subtle, it’s no longer new.
I could make reading the column a prerequisite to getting dinner, but then that might make making dinner a requirement for me. I often prefer the “Every man for himself” method. This is an alternative to serving a hot, nutritious meal in which the caretaker (forget political correctness, let’s just say “Mom”) has slaved away for over an hour, chopping, stirring, and simmering fresh things until an irresistible aroma draws people to the warmth of your loving and cheerful kitchen. In “Every man for himself,” all you do is shout (even louder, if shouting is your primary means of communication) that there is no dinner tonight. It’s “Every man for himself!” Place your hands on the shoulders of smaller family members, and guide them away from the potential stampede. This is crucial if the edible leftovers are limited, meaning only a single or double portion of the better items. Usually, you have only four pieces of chicken curry, but an entire vat of old dried up brown rice and a container with a huge splat of overcooked lentils that nobody wanted on the night it premiered. That’s what you get for trying to cook healthy food. (Whether four pieces of chicken is considered a single serving depends on who gets to it first.) This method teaches young people to fend for themselves, and it trains them to respond when you holler. It leads to gratitude, especially in the person who gets to the fridge first, and sometimes even encourages cooperation among the slowpokes, as in someone young preparing tuna salad and serving it to someone even younger. Best of all, it saves you time so you can think of clever ways to make family members read your column.
They can’t tell me they’re too busy to read, even if they just had to put together a meal because the maternal one has feigned illness or exhaustion - in layman’s terms, start with “I am sick and tired…” and then fill in the blanks. They can't complain that it's too long to read, because I have diligently adhered to an 850-word limit, after some very kind and clever people with limited attention spans complained last summer that this column was too long. Fortunately, I don’t hold grudges, so I have completely forgiven these moronic people. Let’s not waste any more words on them now.
I happen to know lots of people in my house who would gladly read tomes, provided they begin with “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” or “Captain Underpants” or some other cerebral material like “The Encyclopedia of Immaturity.” Oh, fine – those are actual published works. What are you trying to say?
My second daughter says she would indeed LIKE to read this column, in the same way that I might LIKE to floss my teeth, but it is never available when she has the time. (For example, if it weren’t considered rude or unhygienic to floss your teeth while entrapped in a long, boring meeting, wouldn’t you floss more often?) She suggests I bait people into reading by stuffing the newspaper clipping into an empty Pringles can. I know; I shouldn't even admit to having this food-like material made of salted and flavored dehydrated and uniformly compressed potato fragments, but nutrition-happy people should relax. All our Pringles cans are empty.
No, we are not stockpiling them for a craft activity. They just happen to get that way a few seconds upon entering the threshold. Why are empty cans left in the pantry? The same reason people cannot read this column: they're just too busy.
Don’t be impressed that the cans were at least returned to the pantry. They never left it in the first place. Here’s how it works. A bored or hungry person shuffles toward the double doors of the pantry. Yes, it’s a place to stock food, but it can even store its consumer. The doors are only opened wide enough to let the forager get in, but not so wide as to allow you to ascertain the identity. As they feed, you might see powdered puffs of potato-esque fragments explode into the air with each crunch. The height at which the potato particles are emitted is a good indicator of the grazer’s identity. If you shout for everyone to come to the kitchen, (keep it a mystery when there might be the next hot, nutritious meal), the person in the pantry will instead lurch into the formal dining room and make a 359-degree circuit to return to the kitchen, all the while forgetting to dust the Pringles off the face.
The next time you see me buying junk food, please remember I am just trying to promote literacy in my own household. I might even take the added precaution to pre-eat the contents before I plant them into the pantry.
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