Donnie and I try to maintain certain important traditions whenever we’re together. Though cousins, we grew up as brothers, spending much of our summers together in ‘The North Country’ or upstate New York. He always had a good appetite, but knew he took a back seat to me and never ceased to be amazed at the quantity of food I could eat…and how quickly. French toast was always our breakfast of choice and I prepared a batch as he showered. I had four in the pan when he sat down at the table, but when I tried to unload them on his plate…he balked.
“I can’t eat that many. Give me three,” he said while reaching for the maple syrup (real stuff…none of that Log Cabin crap for us).
“Seriously? You’re only going to eat three? I’ve got batter enough to make 12 pieces,” I said.
“You can eat nine…I have faith in you.”
And I could…but with lunch at Slyman’s on the horizon, I wanted to have some room left. I went with six to play it safe.
I’d called my brother Jeff to join us for lunch…he’d never been to Slyman’s either and he brought another first-timer, his wife Bonnie. As we approached the store, I counted 70 people waiting in the take-out line. I’d never seen so many in line for take-out and assumed it was the proximity to St. Pat’s…maybe they were getting warmed up. We moved to the shorter, sit-down to eat line and were at our table in 15 minutes...where Jeff and Bonnie did the unthinkable.
“Could we split a sandwich?” Bonnie asked the waitress.
Heads turned at the tables nearby…regulars wanting to get a look at what might happen next. I blushed, dropped my napkin and kept my head under the table until the waitress asked me what I wanted to eat.
“Corned beef sandwich,” I called from the floor.
Donnie ordered a sandwich, as well, but I knew from comments he'd made while waiting that he wouldn’t be eating the whole thing and that he was planning to embarrass me too when he picked up a fork.
“Tell me you’re not going to eat that sandwich with a utensil,” I pleaded while watching the amateurs across from me dividing their sandwich between their two plates.
“John…it’s just too big. You’d have to have a mouth like yours to be able to fit it around this thing…and not many people do,” Donnie replied.
"Watch...and learn."
I opened my sandwich, slipped horse radish between the many layers of finely sliced corned beef, added some mustard and then began to press down on the top of one half, squeezing until mustard was popping out and running down. I picked it up with both hands, opened my mouth wide and took a bite. Chewing and talking, I said “that’s how you do it,” though my enunciation was a little off since I was determined that not a crumb should escape my lips. To my utter shame, he continued to use a fork. I should have yanked his Man Card.
They all loved their sandwiches…how could you not? Donnie and I headed to Home Depot from there to get the supplies we would need to re-caulk the bath tub in the kid’s bath. One of the items was muriatic acid. There would be no time for exercise, which was a concern since I’d already eaten, to my nearest calculation, about 8,000 calories. And dinner was spaghetti and meatballs.
Though neither of us was very hungry, we sat down to eat dinner around 7 p.m. By the time I’d finished my second plate, I was really uncomfortable and unable to move. Then Donnie asked me if I was planning on making a smoothie.
“For real? You’d drink one?”
“You make it…I’ll drink it. Those things taste great,” he said.
I told him he’d have to drink the whole thing since I was near bursting, but when he couldn’t handle it, I poured a glass and found a place to put it.
I don’t care to know the final caloric total for the day…nor will I try to ascertain the three-day total that I’ll consume before he leaves. I do know that whenever we’re together, I’m a kid again and all discipline heads out the door. And to be honest, I’m glad it does and I am.
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