Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I do admit to, last night, holding the final bowl of gelatin at my side so that it might be less visible as I sneaked it in from the kitchen to my perch at the computer. Which caused [Wife] to raise an exception: "That's too much," she said. This is a railroad apartment, with clear open paths for light, and [Wife] watches everything like a hobby hawk (I pointed out, when she read this, that I chose that hawk because it's surprisingly cute).

A valid question: who needs a full quart of gelatin, calories aside?

A valid answer: I do. I like my fill, even though a fill is not commensurate with good sense or even intelligence. I've been taking my fill for decades, and last night was without consequence--I could eat sugar-free gelatin until I exploded in a (delicious) rainbow without gaining weight. But of course it's the pattern--easy for my wife to see, harder for me--rather than the energy potential inherent in the food. As with the Jell-O, so it has been, in recent memory, with ice cream or breakfast cereal, or bottles of wine; if one makes you feel good, have a second.

My grandfather loved sweets more than any other man I've known. He was experienced in the Tastykake® line, and prince of the line was the Butterscotch Krimpet, a small cake with two ridges in the side draped with a tablecloth of gluey icing. Three in a pack. A visit to their website ("439,000 Butterscotch Krimpets a day, over 160 million a year") sends me into shock--a mix of hunger and a memory of his eyes gleaming when dinner was over and he had the Krimpet in his sights. Sound of the plastic ripping, the frothy texture of the cake and the rubbery texture of the icing. He had about four heart attacks but followed doctor's orders and made it to 82 before he was done. He was full of terrible advice-- "just don't have seconds!"-- but he would probably have gotten a kick out of this current experiment. My family does not have the best relationship with food.

Last night [Wife] came home from a birthday party and told me about her friend who is allergic to everything, and who even suffers from allergies-by-proxy. That is, when friend's boyfriend comes home after smoking, friend breaks out in hives if brushed by his cigarette-stained fingers.

"Now this," I said, as we were falling asleep, "is every wife's dream. To be allergic to your husband's bad habits. So you could say, 'look, look what you've done-- you smoked those cigarettes and now I'm puffed up and itchy. You ate that Jell-O and now I'm covered in hives.' Nothing would make a wife happier than to physically suffer for the bad behavior of a husband." Of course, some wives do physically suffer from their husbands, and I suppose all wives do suffer to some degree; and in any case she did not dispute me.