Cheesy Woes

By Roberta Durra

It was during my first ten formative years in Chicago that I learned some of my most important eating principles. Like ordering pizza after dinner. In my house, finishing dinner meant you were a few short hours closer to eating a large or medium Oddo’s sausage pizza. In defense of my mother who is probably shrinking to the size of a small Oddo’s pizza reliving this memory, it was all my father’s doing. I vividly remember 9:00 pm, three to four times a week, being downstairs with my parents watching a western on television when, like clockwork, we’d hear the ding-dong of our front doorbell. This meant it had arrived. Soon I would begin the multiple step process of eating my slice. I would peel off the top layer of cheese and sausage and set it aside, as this was my favorite part. Then, using my bottom teeth I would scrape off the remaining tomato sauce from the soggy rectangular crust and eat it. When I returned to the initial piece of cheese and sausage, I ate it slowly and deliberately, having saved the best for last.

You would think this would create some kind of weight or health problem, and it did for my father. But not for me. I was a toothpick-skinny, wisp of a girl who was able to share in the thrice weekly, after dinner, cheese, sausage and calorie party with no immediate consequences. It seemed I was getting away scot-free.

Now, some forty years later, I pay dearly for my father’s pizza habit. My problem surfaces most frequently in the refrigerated section at the market. The cheese section to be exact. Here is where the danger lurks. I use mental tools to reason with myself, and work hard not to let things get out of control. Why, I ask myself, buy wheels of delicious soft cheese when I can purchase a bag of completely tasteless, shredded low-fat mozzarella? Do not indulge, I say, in a fine wedge of dense, yet moist cheese from the Auvergne that is buttery and creamy with a subtle tang, and has a sweet milky flavor when I can throw a sensible pack of low-fat string cheese in my cart and call it a day.

But I have an alter ego who gets the best of me. To be clear, what happens is my Roberta turns in to “Bobbi”…a ten-year-old girl who can’t say no to a slice, lives for a piece of ice-cream cake roll, and has a sweet tooth the size of Alaska.

Although I may occasionally drool over macaroni and cheese, go crazy over any kind of cream sauce, and long for the days when adding Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup to any dish made it a casserole, my food conflict only begins with dairy products. Throw in some wheat, gluten, and sugar and I’m REALLY in hog heaven…yet completely guilt ridden. The struggle begins because even though I crave heavier foods, I know that these are exactly what I should stay away from. I know it’s best to eat lots of fresh local organic produce. I feel better when I eat light and healthy, but my more willful, stubborn “Bobbi” self is an unrepentant slave to Dreyer’s Neapolitan Ice Cream and tapioca pudding. Grownup and mature Roberta happens to be a well-informed health conscious whole-foods consumer who shops the farmer’s markets for locally grown, un-altered, fresh organic produce. She shies away from red meat and sometimes even chicken and fish. Ideally, she likes to think she prefers veggies, grains, fruits and nuts. Leading-edge Roberta also has an embarrassingly large collection of natural food and vegetarian cookbooks and emulates celebrity vegetarians such as Mariel Hemmingway, Alicia Silverstone and Marylu Henner. And for the record, grown-up Roberta has never before referred to herself in the third person.

So put Roberta and Bobbi together in a kitchen and what do you get? Complete culinary chaos…and lots of it! I, Roberta, can eat steamed veggies and almonds three days straight and be perfectly happy.  Then, out of the blue on day four, I’ll chase it down with an In’n’Out Burger. I’ll go a week without giving sweets a second thought and then I’ll start on frozen pineapple bits, gradually advance to just a couple of chocolate covered blueberries, and end my parade with a trip to the drawer that has lacy chocolate cookies from Trader Joe’s. I get tired of clean and simple food. In fact, here’s a little secret. During my holier than thou vegetarian, rice and beans, non-dairy stretches, I sometimes sneak a tablespoon or four of whatever ice cream happens to be in the freezer. And here’s another truth…I am physically and emotionally incapable of limiting myself to one Tofutti Cutie when there are others begging to be eaten. In my defense those Cutie’s are dairy-free, lactose-free frozen soy products pretending to be ice cream sandwiches.  And they are the size of a large pebble. Ok, a small rock.

If I sound confused this is because I am. I want to eat healthy foods and be good to myself. I just still haven’t figured out exactly what that looks like. I drive down a very wide food lane and wildly veer from side to side. I need to stay in my own lane, or at the very least put on a seat belt. What does this mean? It means take a deep breathe grown-up Roberta and eat what your body tells you to eat even if that includes a trip to the freezer with a tablespoon every now and again. So be it.

So if you come to my house for dinner it’s best to ask what period I’m currently in. Will we be having sweet potato-lentil stew or will I be grillin’ baby backs slathered with Sweet Baby Ray’s? Will I insist we all partake in vegan lemon cake or will I have made a chocolate meringue pie with freshly whipped cream and chocolate shavings on top? It’s best to call ahead. And when you hear a ding-dong at 9:00 pm, I hope you’re not too full.