On love and lying

What's wrong with leaving a few things unsaid?

What do you do when you long for a slimmer figure, but you love food? When every milestone you celebrate includes a frosted cake, when all your cherished life events conjure up images of something steaming in a pot, pulled from a hot oven, or rolled in a plate of sugar?

We’re seated at the bar in a trendy Boston restaurant. It’s dark outside but we can see a triangle of night sky if we look beyond the hanging ferns through to the glass ceiling. 

“Can I have a bottle of still water instead?” I say to the waiter as he’s about to fill my glass from the silver pitcher.

My spouse Janyce is studying the menu with her head down. Over the weekend, I finally lost the battle I was having with myself, the one where I vowed to get through the entire winter wearing only the few items in my wardrobe that still fit. “I hate to say this, but I have to buy pants,” I said to Janyce from inside our shared closet, flinging clothing onto the floor. 

Last year at this time, I packed an entire box destined for curbside pickup by the Epilepsy Foundation. It was filled with old household items that didn’t spark joy anymore, along with several pairs of my fat pants. Even though I was inching up again on the scale and the ones I was wearing to work all fall were getting tight in the thighs, I felt giddy tossing these larger ones on the pile of the books and the discarded glass Pyrex casserole dishes with the burn marks on the inside. My plan was to run a few more 5ks over the year and drop a few more pounds, instead I ran less and put on more.

“I’m driving in on Monday,” said Janyce, “It’s my first meeting with the new trainer after work so why don’t you drive with me?” Perfect, I thought to myself, we can stop at the Starbucks on the way and I can get a coffee with a warm sugar-sanded morning bun and all will be right with the world. Until I remembered that I was on a new eating plan. 

“I’ll have the swordfish skewer,” I say. The waiter standing behind the counter nods. It’s still early on a Monday night and although the restaurant is filling up, the people coming in the front door are still relaxed, there’s not yet a group of people impatiently loitering around in the hallway waiting to take our seats when we leave. 

“How many ounces are there in a glass of red wine?” I look up from the menu. “And we’ll split the green salad and the beets, right?” I say, turning to face Janyce. 

“I’ll take the arancini with the bolognese,” says Janyce.

This morning in the Starbucks parking lot, I handed Janyce my coffee cup as I climbed into the passenger side of the Jeep. She was sitting in the driver’s side frowning at her phone. “My trainer just cancelled, she has the flu,” she said. “Well then, why don’t you join me for dinner after my shopping,” I said. “We’ll call it an early Valentines.”

Valentine’s day is not a holiday we care about. We’re both in agreement about this. Sometimes one or both of us might get the other one a card or post a couple of loving sentences on FB along with a picture from our wedding. More often than not, we’ll go out to dinner sometime around the general date—like tonight—and call it a holiday. Janyce dislikes the commercialism of this made-up day, the pink and red hearts filling up the aisles in the CVS in early January, the men in their business suits, running through South Station on their way home with a bunch of cellophane wrapped roses still dripping from the flower stand. 

It’s not high on my list either, but for other reasons. Oh, like maybe because every February 14th, I seem to be a little heftier around the middle, a little more frustrated, and once again on another new diet.

What do you do when you long for a slimmer figure, but you love food? When every milestone you celebrate includes a frosted cake, when all your cherished life events conjure up images of something steaming in a pot, pulled from a hot oven, or rolled in a plate of sugar?

The first night Janyce and I ever spent together started with a food seduction. I remember pacing in my office at work knowing she was coming over and I had exactly one hour to get myself off the train and back home to cook and set the stage. I couldn’t imagine a pivotal evening like this one taking place without me first preparing the perfect meal. I spent a week thinking about the menu. I googled sexy food. I marinated a few strips of flank steak in olive oil and blood oranges overnight and composed a light salad with pomegranate and bitter greens dressed in a homemade dressing. I bought a good bottle of red and a double package of tiny chocolate lava cakes to pop in the oven. We ate this small meal while drinking wine and talking for hours before moving from the table. 

Later that night, I sat up on one elbow and asked, “Are you hungry?” and she smiled at me, “Yeah, I’m starving,” she said. “Wait right here,” I said, before dashing into the kitchen to cook and toss everything I had assembled ahead of time together into one giant bowl— fettuccine noodles melting into freshly grated Pecorino Romano cheese, butter, cream, and ground black pepper. I brought the entire bowl and two forks back to the bedroom and we twirled pasta together by moonlight.

“Would you like some bread?” says another waiter passing by us from behind, carrying a brown loaf shaped into a neat little square on a small white plate. I can tell that it’s warm without even touching it. 

“Sure,” I say and motion for him to place the plate down on Janyce’s side. I didn’t really plan for bread at this meal, but I reach over to tear a small piece off and dip it in the olive oil. 

The waiter behind the bar hands us our dinner plates— a large bowl of seasonal greens, a smaller bowl of roasted red and gold beets with walnuts, Janyce’s saffron arancini with bolognese ragù, and my three bites of grilled swordfish with fennel pollen on a toothpick.

“Do you think I’m too fat?” I say to Janyce after taking a sip of wine.

Janyce takes a deep breath and remains silent.

“No really,” I say, “Tell the truth, I want to know what you think,” I say.

“Why do you do this to me, Kris?” says Janyce.

I press her for more answers but we’ve had this conversation before, and she always says the right things, even if some of them are little white lies for the greater good, “of course I’m still attracted to you, I just want you to be healthy, to be happy, tell me what I can do to support you.”

I’ve done all the diets and had success on all of them but never long term. And now this decade comes with its own thick-in-the-middle challenges. It’s never been more difficult than it is right now to slim down.

I decide to give up on the truth or dare and concentrate on the meal and the wine. When the waiter comes to clear our dishes and asks about dessert we both say no thanks in unison. Skipping dessert is never a first choice for Janyce, but she did it for me. After twelve years and thousands of meals together, this is the most romantic gesture I can think of, and maybe the sweetest valentine of all.

“Wait till you see where I parked,” says Janyce.

“Got a good space?” I say.

“Right out front,” she says.

On our way out of the restaurant, we wind our way through Eately, past the stacks of imported Italian crackers and olive oils, the cookbooks and aprons, and a whole row of gleaming Italian designed toasters.

“Wow, this is exactly what I have been looking for,” I say, running my hand along the shiny chrome of what has to be the Cadillac of all toasters. “Look it comes in red, too!”

Our kitchen has been remodeled for years, and we’ve taken to making our toast in the oven because I haven’t been able to find a red toaster that I thought would look good sitting on the quartz counter top and up against the shiny white subway tile.

“You’d buy this obscenely priced toaster right now, just because I like it?” I say to Janyce, while picking up the box in my free hand, “you must really love me.”

“Yes, I do” she says.