It was many years ago, I was perhaps ten or eleven, that we all sat down for a Sunday dinner. There was roast, potatoes, broccoli, and salad. My mother, at the start of the meal, mentioned she was going on a diet and not to be served too much. My father, the compassionate soul he is, was more than happy to oblige. After all, he deeply loved my mother.
He cut the thinnest sliver of roast. A single wedge of potato. The very smallest floret of broccoli. Then he paused to look upon his beloved.
"Would you care for salad, dear?"
By this time my mother was not much caring about the presence of her three young children as her middle fingers flew fast and liberally...
Years later, but a few years back from today, I recounted this tale to a couple of pals. At the end, one looked up at me and said;
"So you're telling me it's genetic."
To this day I have no idea what she meant...
