I’m very fond of food. Real food. Stuff like beefsteaks, fried chicken, slabs of grilled salmon, casseroles of all kinds, thick hamburgers, macaroni — you know, the stuff that’s supposed to clog our arteries, extend our tummies and shorten our lives. Sometimes I like to pigout at the all-you-care-to-eat restaurants — I call ’em “pig-parlors.” Yeah, I know, gluttony is a sin. Oh well, I’m doing better. After many dieting attempts, I’ve lost 25 pounds by eating less and exercising more. Hope I can keep it off!

Some years back, my wife and I tried a new diet that promoted eating mostly raw food, prohibited any meat or dairy products in any form, and absolutely no fast food or processed food — to say the least, a pretty tough regimen for a ravening American carnivore.

I had no doubt that such a diet is (probably) conducive to good health and longevity, but I hated the boring blandness of it and found myself sneaking a luscious fast food hamburger, then feeling guilt and self-reproach for the mindless transgression that was draping me in layers of disgusting fat, destroying my body and bringing on a untimely demise.

While at work one midafternoon, I became ravenously hungry. At lunchtime, I’d smelt the delicious aromas of cheesy macaroni pie and sizzling hamburger steaks smothered in onions, wafting lusciously from the cafeteria down the hallways to my office. My all-vegetable salad washed down with distilled water had left me feeling unsatisfied and very sorry for myself. My self-control — always teetering on the edge of total self-indulgence where creature comforts are concerned — was at an all-time, low ebb.

I was stealing gleefully down the hall with a vending machine meatloaf sandwich hot and fragrant from the microwave when Yarda, a young engineer from the Czech Republic who had recently joined our research group, rounded a corner.

Yarda was a highly intelligent guy, very friendly, with a great sense of humor.

He knew only a few English words before coming to the States, and though he was learning fast, some of his efforts at speaking the difficult language made us smile. He stopped, looking inquisitively at my napkin-covered paper plate.

Yarda smiled broadly, “Well Rush, you having food-break, huh? What you having?”

“Oh, just a meatloaf sandwich,” I answered. “I’m kinda hungry today.”

Yarda chuckled, shaking his head. “You Americans are real funny people. You have big amounts of nice food everywhere. Eat lots, not exercise, get fat, then get sad and eat only vegetation. Food is not problem. No exercise is problem.”

He patted my somewhat-padded midsection.

“Look at me. I eat all I want. Never get fat ’cause I exercise much — run, play tennis, ski, swim.”

“Sure, Jeri,” I countered, “but you’re a young man. Wait ’til you’re my age. It’s a lot harder to stay slim when you’re older.”

Yarda threw up his hands, shaking his head excitedly, “Oh no, that is wrong. my father’s mother is ninety-three and she eats fat pig and drinks much vodka every day. She is thin, but she walks miles each day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I butted in, “I’ve heard that story before, Jeri. How many people do you know like your grandmother?”

“Oh many, many, in Czech Republic,” he replied, smiling broadly. “People there have much exercise. Live a long time. Be happy.

“Eat what you like, Rush.Just exercise.”

“But Yarda,” I rejoined defensively, “I already exercise a lot.”

He just smiled, nodded and strolled away humming some Czech melody. I enjoyed the sandwich immensely.

Now years later, I’ve finally lost weight, but I still love food. In fact, I seem to hear the mystical siren song of the pig parlors. See you there — just remember to exercise!

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