Old Current Affairs has been at it again, delivering generic information to its mostly sexagenarian-plus audience who wouldn’t for a second question how healthy is ‘healthiest’ on the sausage scale or which of IGA’s sausages had been sampled, and how the ones at Mum and Dad’s local store might be different. That the local shop had run out practically sealed it. And, once you put the word ‘healthiest’ before one type of sausage, suddenly all sausages became great for your diet.
I stopped trying to control my parents’ diet some time ago. I’m not suggesting for one second that my septuagenarian parents suddenly switch to a wholly plant-based diet like Jeff and me, as amazing as that would undoubtedly be for their health. I just think it would be sensible if they stopped cooking to death any vegetables they did eat. Maybe they could also dial up the greens and the occasional raw veggie just a little. That’s all. Also – oh the horror, the horror – eat a vegetarian meal once a week. Could they perhaps consume a few more wholegrains, sugar-free cereal or brown instead of white rice? And wouldn’t it also make medical sense to reduce their sugar intake by at least twenty-five per cent? Even at that, what they go through in the average week is more sweet stuff than the sensible among us would consume in an entire year.
Dad, meanwhile, hates inedible, foul and poisonous ingredients like herbs, spices, yoghurt, balsamic and, of course, ‘anything vegan’. Which is odd because he loves his salt and pepper. If you set the table and serve a meal with neither in easy reach then you can expect that look, and a huff as he sends you off to search for his shakers while your meal gets cold and he starts to eat his, sometimes using neither the salt nor pepper as if in protest of them having not been there originally. He just needs to see them there in front of him – they’re a comfort.
‘They should have been on the table in the first place,’ he chides.
* * *
‘I’ll have steak. Well done. Well, not burnt, but. And no blood. Make sure there’s no blood,’ Dad says.
‘So I’ll ask for medium?’
‘No one can ever get it right. Last time I had medium it was burnt. And the time before that, it was bloody, so . . .’ In one sweeping facial expression, Dad dismisses every meat chef who’s ever lived.
‘Got it,’ I say.
‘What sauce do you want with that?’
‘Creamy mushroom, thanks, Skeet.’
Despite the open menu in front of him, I’m required to dredge up further information.
‘And your choice of side, sir?’
‘Eh?’
‘It comes with mash and veggies, or chips and cast-aside salad.’
I study his face for a reaction to my little joke, but it goes over his head. Thankfully, a quick glance at Mum and Jeff shows my entire audience is not totally oblivious.
‘I love veggies,’ Dad says. ‘Can you ask them to give me chips and mash please?’
‘Sure thing,’ I say.
At the counter I order Dad’s steak. ‘Can we have no salad on that one, sorry? Because my diabetic father refuses to eat greens.’
The staff member gives me a look that says, Hey, don’t air your dirty laundry to me, mate, but says, ‘No problem, we’ll give him double the chips.’ Very helpful indeed.
‘Sorry Dad, they won’t do both mash and chips.’ I tell this little white lie when I get back to the table. But your heart and arteries will thank me for the lack of cream and butter, in the end.
‘You could have asked for mash and then a side of chips,’ Jeff says innocently, but the look on my face quickly shuts down his brilliant solution.
‘Never mind,’ Dad says forlornly, ‘I just love me veggies.’
I’ve given up trying to be my father’s dietician. Dad’s TV addiction is probably more accountable for his confusion over what’s right for him to eat than any of his doctors. Over the years, I’ve tried to instil in my parents that wholegrain is better than white when it comes to breads, pastas and rice. No carbs would be best but that’s a little too far a stretch. Overnight, Dad has seen a program that mentioned foods to avoid for Crohn’s sufferers like him.
‘I can’t eat that seed bread anymore, Skeet,’ he says apologetically, as though I’m the inventor of the stuff and will be mortally offended that he won’t be chewing on my five-grain sourdough ever again.
‘Why not, Dad?’
‘I was watching Current Affairs last night —’
Here we go again, I think.
‘It said that any seed is really bad for my Crohn’s and I should avoid it. So, it’s white bread for me from now on.’ Shares in Tip Top skyrocket.
Naturally, this ‘news’ hadn’t considered those who suffer both Crohn’s and diabetes, so Dad is of course picking the cream from the top of the fat-laden milkshake.
* * *
‘Well, I was watching MasterChef the other night,’ I say. ‘They had a challenge that really stumped the contestants.’
‘Oh yeah, what was that?’ Mum asks.
‘Something that used to be your specialty. The contestants just couldn’t wrap their heads around the subtleties of the textures and flavours. You would have smashed it out of the park.’
‘What was the dish?’ she asks excitedly.
I can’t speak.
‘Well, what was it?’
‘It was . . . devon and salad!’ I blurt out, and laugh uncontrollably. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. Jeff and Dad appreciate my jibe and laugh along too.
‘You little shit!’
‘Not a single contestant could slice their unripe tomatoes so thickly or knew how to shove two slices of devon on the plate with a bit of iceberg, tinned beetroot and call out, “Kids, dinner’s ready!” as you could.’
