Challenging Kobayashi

I arrived at my cousin's early on Thanksgiving afternoon having eaten only a single chocolate chip cookie for breakfast. I was saving several hundred calories which I could then spread judiciously over the course of the afternoon.

I began a tour of his new residence, walking past the assorted offerings from appetizers to desserts spread about the kitchen. I wondered whether it would be impolitic for me to ingest a cookie on the run. I hesitated briefly then moved on, trying to appear oblivious to the many foods facing imminent demise.

There is a discussion between the weak me and the weaker me which occurs at moments like this. For as long as I have known me, and it feels like a relationship that has lasted my entire life, I have failed miserably in moderating my impulse to gorge.

The shrimp, resting pure and proud, was my first area of attack.  It was a withering assault, the cocktail sauce slathered on, piece after piece. I was like Kobayashi only faster. The plate recoiled in horror at the severity of it all. In the end, what remained were a few remnants, shreds of what had but moments before been such an impressive array of talent.

There was rumor of whitefish salad. I moved with singular focus from room to room until I located the dish. Hiding between the celery, crackers and potato chips, it seemed to recognize its fate. Within seconds the indiscriminate, maniacal siege had commenced. The weapons of choice were many. Try as the fish might to slither off the outside of a cracker, or the edge of the stick of celery, it may have received a momentary reprieve but the inevitable was, in a word, inevitable.

The next several hours are but a blur. I think there was a television, football games, relatives and some relative unknowns in the vicinity of me and my food. I remember a small mountain of little hot dogs being placed within reach and then being vacuumed in by me, one with mustard, the next with ketchup, in a serial procession.

I have vague images of a plate being filled with traditional Thanksgiving fare, and then another one of similar dimension. By dessert, I flailed about, making but lame attempt to meet my allotment. But none of this has the clarity of those first minutes when there was nothing between me and my insatiable needs.

On our trip home last night, my daughter remarked that it was one of the best Thanksgivings she could remember. I will have to take her word for it.