Pat's View: Chewing the Fat
By Pat Cashman
I was 12 years old, and everyone else had left the dinner table twenty minutes earlier. But there I remained seated while under the baleful eye of my mother. “Keep eating it until you’re done,” she said. The “it” she referred to was a hunk of suety oleginousness; a clump of sebaceous adiposity. Or, as it is more commonly known: fat.
My mom quite honestly believed that “fat is good for you”---and therefore my siblings and I were required not only to finish every meal she laid out for us, but also every component part of it---including trimmings, stems, skins and, yes, fat.
The problem with fat---be it from beef, chicken, ham, turkey or salmon---was that I simply could not swallow it. I could chew it for hours---even days---and make less progress than a slug traveling from Tukwila to Pullman.
Big Bertha could tunnel through the planet quicker than I could ingurgitate a glob of gristle. Even a gun to the head would not speed things along.