Recently, I had the honor of attending a Gujarati film screening at a large Hindu Temple. I’d never been there before so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to leave early enough for me to get lost twice, in spite of Google Maps. My concern about arriving early was quickly put to rest when I saw the throngs of Gujarati men and women who had arrived early and were gathered in the courtyard, enjoying coffee, chai, and a nice chat. I stepped into a foyer to get my ticket and suddenly found myself surrounded by far more people than could fit into that space. The noise of conversation was deafening, but as I looked around I felt a sense of relief, which is unusual for a claustrophobe in a crowded room. My first thought was, “At last! I’m in India!” The second was of feeling right at home. This intuitive leap was proven to be true when the audience filed out of the auditorium for what they termed a light dinner and I regarded as a heavy meal. Before I could reach the theater exit, someone was shoving a plastic tray into my hands, saying “Come, come, get something to eat.” This was followed by a chorus of “Here, go in front of me.” “You’re not eating anything!” “Get some food and sit with us.” One sweet stranger supposed I might not like Indian food, so he came up to me and said, “Look! There’s a big salad. You can eat salad. Eat something.” I had been looking forward to dinner but I was so wrapped up in the emotions of the film I’d just seen, I was too wired to eat yet. Eventually, I tossed my plate and just chatted as if I’d finished dinner, but still the questions were fired at me. “Did you get something to eat?” “Do you want any chai?” “Tell me, I’ll get it for you.” Cultures who push food, they are my people. I could have added Mexicans, Persians, Greeks, Armenians, Syrians, Argentinians, and families from other cultures I’ve met here in Southern California to this blog title, all of which feel like failures if they don’t roll you out of their homes filled to the gill with delicacies. The first time I saw an Italian St. Joseph’s table I thought I was going to faint. There were more platters of food than table space, so they were teetering one on top of the other. Eventually the neighborhood was going to eat all of it. The exceptions are, perhaps, British and Scottish homes, not that I’ve ever been into any, mind you. I’m basing my statement on a Scottish comedienne who brought her audience to tears of laughter when she said they greet their visitors with, “You’ll have had your tea already then?” Don’t get me wrong. I am an Anglophile and the best meals I’ve ever had were in Scotland and northern England. It’s just that, as a people, they are not pushy. Maybe it has something to do with the climate. Unfortunately, I can’t really do these generous folks justice. I’m too anxiety-ridden to eat much at one sitting. I’ve been told I pick at my food. That’s not true. I take small portions, eat some, and then shove the rest around my plate to look like I’ve done justice to the meal. This is a family trait. The first time my father took Ma to his sister’s house, Aunt Elsie placed a platter of blintzes in front of her. She took two and began to pass the platter, only to be told that was her serving, everyone would get their own. She was only able to eat two of the blintzes and was regarded as a disappointment to Aunt Elsie’s family from that point on. You would think that having a small appetite would teach my mother to respect my resistance to finishing everything on my plate, but no. She thought we should make up for all the starving children in Africa. That was her phrase. She also believed children should eat every four hours. This is what caused my sister to get fat. When my sister was born, my mother would wake her out of a perfectly sound sleep at twelve in the morning to have one more bottle of milk. As a result, my sister spent the rest of her life getting up at midnight, paddling down the hall to the kitchen, and eating leftovers. She liked chocolate babka leftovers best of all. This was no problem at home but when she traveled she was had a difficult decision to make. Wrap lasagna in a paper napkin and hope it gets to her hotel room before it dyes her purse red from tomato sauce or have stomach pains at night. By the time I was born, Ma stopped the midnight feedings but she still thought I should finish my lunch. We indulged in a war of wills. I was not allowed to leave the table until my plate was clean. Our kitchen had a little U-shaped nook with built-in benches topped by plastic covered cushions. My first line of defense was to wrap whatever I didn’t want to eat in my paper napkin, slip it under the cushion, and sit on it until it was flat and unnoticeable. Each day I’d slide the previous meal down to my left and sit on a new morsel. Because my mother was not an avid house cleaner, I managed to fill up at least half the U of benches before my deceit was revealed. I think my punishment was a good finger wagging. My next ploy was to sit. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do so I would languish at the table for hours, head in hand, looking sorrowful. I won that round. I bored my mother into submission. Going out to dinner was more traumatic. They insisted on bringing me along, Lord knows why. The waiter would come and before I could order something from the menu, the argument would start. Ma: “Don’t let her order a meal; she won’t eat it.” Brother-in-law: “She’s just going to fill up on soda crackers.” Father: “Let her order what she wants.” Turning to me he’d ask, “You’ll eat your dinner this time, right?” I’d nod yes. Sister: No comment. She knew what was coming. I’d order an adult meal because they didn’t have children’s menus wherever we went, and even if they did, it wouldn’t have made a difference. Soda crackers would be placed on the table. I’d be starved because it was past my bedtime. I’d fill up on soda crackers, then not touch a bite of my dinner, and the arguments would start again. “See? I told you she wouldn’t eat it!” The waiter would give me a dirty look as he removed my untouched meal, and I would dissolve in tears. For those who know me in person, such as my children or the friend who is going to try to feed me in about ninety minutes, this will explain everything. The rest of you are free to shake your heads and agree this is nuts. Yet before I leave the subject of pushing food, I’d like to offer my theory about who does it and why. It all boils down to money and the lack thereof. If you and your neighbors never had to worry about starving, you can cultivate thinness and serve small portions. If you come from hunger, then the best thing you can do for another human being is feed them. My sister told of eating at a Judge’s house whose parents were poor Jewish immigrants. His wife was admonishing him for pushing food onto the overstuffed guests. He ended the conversation by throwing up his hands in glee and shouting, “We’re rich! Let’s eat!”