Ten Suspected Dorm Food Ingredients

by Thomas M. Pender

Until I lived in the dormitories of Michigan State University, beginning at age 18, it seemed that I could never gain weight, and I loved that.  Once exposed to the food in the dorms, my metabolism seemingly shut down, and my weight snowballed.  These are my prime suspects to that crime.

10)          Lard

9)            Helium

8)            Lard

7)            Steroids (the kind that aim only at the stomach!)

6)            Lard

5)            Starch (straight outta the can)

4)            Lard

3)            Marshmallow filling, by the truckloads

2)            Lard

and

1)            Fix-A-Flat

Twice The Man I Used To Be

by Thomas M. Pender

I took my “skinny pictures” into work this week.  A co-worker had done the same a few weeks ago, so I thought I would share my former physique with my friends, as well, if only for laughs.

I’ve been a little under 6’3” since I was about 15.  My weight seems to have plateaued at an unhealthy yet statistically common 260 pounds.  This is just about double what it was in high school, where, at the same height, I weighed about 140.  At this stage, my dad would often call me “Stretch,” and on one occasion, “World’s Tallest Dart.”  It wasn’t that I had no access to or interest in food.  In fact, I was quite the eater!  I was a very economical child when my family would go out to eat, as I could finish my food and whatever everyone else didn’t eat, as well.  Not a bite went to waste.  I ate and ate and ate.  My mother, who had been using the warning “You’ll spoil your dinner” to all of us kids since I can remember, gave up cautioning me in my teens.  It became “You’ll spoil your . . . oh, never mind,” and eventually, nothing was said.  She knew very well that I’d be hungry again – or still! – at dinnertime.

At the time, I was very proud of my metabolism.  I loved being thin, loved that I could eat anything I wanted in just about any quantity, and I’d either maintain my weight or lose a few pounds while I did so.  Since grade school, I bragged on the playground that I could push my stomach in until I touched my backbone.  This wasn’t true, of course, but I never met a kid on the swings who didn’t believe me, based solely on my two-dimensional lack-of-girth.  I thought it made me special that my mother had such trouble finding me jeans that fit.  “Normal” jeans were either too short in the leg or too wide in the waist.  It was a small miracle when The Gap opened, and displayed their wide range of sizes.  I recall that in high school, I had a 29” waist and a 36” inseam, and that employees at any store outside of The Gap would scoff or drop a jaw when my mother asked for these dimensions.

I was adept at fitting into any space, as well.  My dad drove a Ford Escort when I was 15, and he laughed once when I was getting out of the back seat, saying, “It’s like watching someone unfold a lawn chair.”  I never met a back seat I couldn’t fit into, or a tight space I couldn’t snake through.  Once, a friend took me to her house, where I met her parents for the first time.  Sometime later, my friend confided in me that her mother had pulled her aside when I was out of earshot and whispered, “Feed that boy something!”

Rest assured, Mrs. Barker, I was eating more than my share.

The free ride on the buffet train caught up to me in college, where the dorms were feeding us God-knows-what, disguised as roast beef, French fries and deviled eggs.  I gained my “freshman 10,” then a sophomore 10, then I just kept gaining.  I suppose at some point, I was of average weight for my height, but I have no idea when that was.  I outgrew pants that were far from outworn, until I noticed one day that I was, in fact, overweight.  According to most medical average charts, I’m supposed to weigh about 190 at this height.  This seems a bit low to me, but in any case, I’m nowhere near that lovely number.  I’ve gone on crash diets before – mostly in an involuntary manner – and I do lose weight, but as the gods of humor would have it, I lose weight in the last two areas I need to: my face and neck.  During these periods, people see me in public and think I’m sick or I need public assistance to find food.  They’re nice enough to not notice I’m simultaneously pushing my belt to its limit.  I look at my “skinny pics” now, and I do see that I was abnormally light, and I can sympathize with Mrs. Barker’s concern.

My fiancée and I have made a deal that we’re going to oversee each other’s diet and exercise programs as soon as we’re settled somewhere together.  My goal is pretty simple: For the first time in my life, I’d like to be average . . . at least in the case of my weight.

Learning To Love “Iced Tea”

by Thomas M. Pender

I am not a drinker.  I never did enjoy any alcoholic beverage enough to overindulge.  There are a few I like, though.  Specifically, those drinks which have no hint whatsoever of alcohol in the taste.  It has to taste like something other than gasoline.  Mixed drinks with generous amounts of fruit juice or soda pop are just right for me.

With that in mind, I will rewind a bit.  Unlike some of my classmates, I had no interest in alcohol when I was a teen.  Didn’t think about it, didn’t wonder about it.  I learned a lot from observation, and what I observed about folks who drank was nothing I wanted to get involved in.

I don’t think my parents really felt the need to warn me about much back then.  I don’t wear guilt well.  If I had been doing anything major that I shouldn’t have been doing, it probably would have appeared on my face like the marquee of a Broadway debut.  I do remember a short “sex talk,” which I believe occurred immediately following a PTA meeting, so it must have been an interesting topic that night.  Dad smoked, but I was nowhere near intrigued with the practice.  Put simply, I was a viceless nerd.  (Of course, I say that with pride.)

One ordinary day, Dad gave me some alcohol-related advice.  This shocked me, as it was pretty much baseless.  Dad didn’t drink much at all, I never drank, and we had never discussed the stuff before.  In fact, we weren’t discussing it at that time, either.  He said, “If you ever get the chance, try a Long Island Iced Tea.”  Stymied, my only response was “Okay.”  Then, I forgot all about it.

Approximately five years later, I was a freshman in college who still didn’t care about drinking.  I was at virtually every party my floormates went to or held, but I was the guy with the Coke bottle in his hand, filled with actual Coke.  I went with my compadres one day on a two-hour drive from East Lansing, Michigan, USA to Windsor, Ontario, Canada.  The purpose of my friends’ trip was not only to purchase some inexpensive hard-to-find Canadian brew, but to get our clan to a bar in the nineteen-is-the-legal-drinking-age country next door.

I loved being among my peers on adventures, so I didn’t hesitate to get involved, but I had no plans to do anything but attend.  Canada had Coke, right?  No problem!

Once we got ourselves situated at a near-the-border tavern, the waitress went around the table for orders.  Many beer names were requested, but when she got to me, my dad’s voice echoed in my head.

I said, “Give me a Long Island Iced Tea.”

I really didn’t expect to enjoy the drink, as the name forced me to guess that it was designed to taste like iced tea, of which I am no fan.  I think it was just being in a position for the first time to actually order a drink, I wanted to get the curiosity over with.  My friends were a bit shocked, knowing that I had never drunk before, that I went with such a drink.  The reason is that, unlike myself, they actually knew what was in it.  More on that later.

A tall mug was put in front of me with a great deal of ice, a watered-down-Coke-colored beverage and a straw.  I took a meager sip and let the liquid register to my tongue.  It tasted like . . . Kool-Aid!  Kool-Aid, I can drink.  Passing the non-iced-tea-tasting litmus test, I took another sip.  Well, okay, I drank up half the large glass in one draw.  When I sat back up, the entire tableful of drinkers was staring at me, slack-jawed.  Everyone there knew I hadn’t had a drink before, and again, they knew what was in the mystery fluid.

“Are you okay?” a friend asked.

“Yeah!” I said.  “Hey, can you bring me another one of these?” I asked, finishing the first.  I had another, then I finished someone’s fuzzy navel (which also tastes not at all like gasoline), then I had a Coke.

It’s noteworthy at this point to say that I was rather thin back in these days.  For those who don’t know, the effects of alcohol on a drinker are generally proportional to the proportions of the drinker.  Skinnier drinkers get drunk quicker, as the alcohol has less drinker to travel through and affect.  With this in mind, my friends were rather intrigued and a bit amused by my excursion.  They were going to see the legendary and thin non-drinker after the effects of a few drinks!

I disappointed them all that night.  As it turns out, I had a rather high natural tolerance for alcohol.  I didn’t slur or sway a bit.  Over the years, I’ve concluded that I’m a pretty boring drinker.  I don’t like it enough to drink lots, but the effects are sorta non-effectual on me.

Here’s the punchline: After that trip, I looked up Long Island Iced Tea in a bartender’s guide.  Depending on the recipe, there are between five and ten straight alcohols in this concoction . . . along with “a splash of Coke for color”!  I can’t imagine how it tastes so non-alcoholic with that pedigree, but it sure won me over, after being disinterested in anything named “iced tea.”  I still hardly drink.  Mostly at wedding receptions or rare dinners with a party of others.  Whenever I do, this is usually the drink I have first.  It still tastes good and still doesn’t affect me much.  Then, I switch back to Cokes and waters.  Regardless of the flavor, I’m still just not impressed with the stuff.