Much Ado About Mucho

It’s official.  When I grow up, I want to own a house in Manhattan, somewhere around 5th Avenue and 92nd Street.  It’s beautiful, right off Central Park and near several of the finest museums, including el Museo del Barrio.  I could live here.  At least part-time, when I’m not yachting off the coast of Cozumel.

But instead of shopping for townhouses and boat-mansions, I am in New York City for a small conference on obesity prevention.  Not my own, but that might make a good story, too.  Rather, I’m part of a gathering of academics, policy makers, doctors and lawyers who are working to address the epidemic throughout the state of New York.  

A consequence of attending such meetings is that one begins to look at the world a little differently.  For instance, as I write this, I’m sitting in a quaint cafe, trying to think clever thoughts over the din of urban chatter. But I am distracted by the mountain of scrambled eggs a waitress has served me and I remember the meal I had for dinner last night...

At a bistro across the street from my hotel, I stumbled upon a taping of the Real Housewives of New York City and wound up sharing a romantic dinner with the housewife formerly known as the Countess (now just Luann) and her French paramour.

  

As they clumsily ordered appetizers and publicly displayed their forced affection for the cameras, I gawked, not at them (much), but at the prodigious serving of salmon risotto in front of me.  Not only was I dining alone, a book at arms length to try to catch the candlelight just right, but now I had to manage my own meal for two—and I’m not eating for two these days. 

Breakfast now.  I’m unpleasantly surprised by the half-dozen scrambled eggs heaped onto my plate.  I take a few bites.  They are warm, creamy and nicely seasoned.  There is nothing wrong with these eggs except their number.

Plenty of people, doctors and diet gurus alike, remind us that healthy eating has as much to do with the kinds of foods we eat as it does with the amount of food we eat. When presented with a large, beautiful bowl of rich, buttery risotto, I feel...stressed.  Will I offend the cook by not eating it all?  Will the people around judge me if I do eat it all (especially that Tall-Drink-of-Water-Luann)?  There’s also the guilt surrounding the decision to order such a caloric dish in the first place.  Then, I consider the possibility that if we were a culture more in tune with healthy eating, I would neither feel guilty about the occasional indulgence nor saddled with decisions about how much to eat in one sitting.

Is this much ado about nothing? Or mucho?