After I finally made the decision to make some sense of all this, to become proactive and do some research into the history of those two virgin sisters, who supposedly bequeathed me their “gift”, I experienced a brief moment of solitude. But it quickly evaporated when I noticed a group of teenage girls snickering at me while I was at the market buying research snacks, and I looked down and saw that I had the corner of a Pop-Tart stuck to the front of my sweater, like a brooch of shame. Oh, the humanity! But what I found out later that night was truly a revelation, and I was actually able to push aside my deep, deep humiliation for a brief period.

It turns out the sisters weren’t even skinny. Sturdy is a more accurate description. In the big box of old photos I had promised to have transferred onto a VHS tape for my mother many years ago, I found a picture of the pair leaning against a pickup truck in 1927, each smiling and holding a bottle of Coke. Both were broad-shouldered and husky, and appeared capable of carrying the truck back to the store for a second round. Holy crap in a Bundt pan! What in the honey-baked hell?! How did this story get started if those two old broads weren’t even skinny? How did the legend of the quick metabolism take root, if the main characters looked like a pair of Frank Suttons? I hated to do it, but the time had come for drastic measures; it was time to call my parents.

I felt a twinge of panic when my mother suggested we meet at one of those buffet restaurants parents are so fond of frequenting. Could I trust myself at a buffet? The little overweight man in my head was telling me that a person of my size would be wise to steer clear of such establishments. But after considering it for a couple of beats, I relented. After all, my previous experiences with the all-you-can-eat format weren’t exactly pleasant. Usually the food was sub-school cafeteria in quality, and the fellow patrons seemed barely able to contain their urge to physically climb onto the food bar and wallow around. I quickly decided that I shouldn’t have trouble keeping things in check for an hour or two, under such depressing circumstances.

The Breakfast Bar was the trend of the day when I was a kid. My parents and everybody else’s parents seemed to fall under its seductive spell in unison. I remember huge steel vats heaping with sausage patties and eggs, and being drunk on the power of knowing we could eat until we blacked out if we wanted. It made you proud to be an American -- at least going in. The memories are vivid: a man in silhouette by the window folding a foot long strip of bacon into his elongated mouth; an expressionless woman gnawing on what appeared to be a meat apple; people still chewing from their previous platefuls elbowing their way into position at the bar for another throw, children and the handicapped be damned; seniors, looking to be in a full state of pre-digestive distress, sitting in booths playing gristle hockey in their church clothes while their children curse the unsatisfactory biscuit allocation. And always, dramatically, a hush would eventually fall over the place, followed by a wave of tense electricity, as the swinging doors to the kitchen banged open and a toothless god appeared bearing a steaming bucket of fresh hash browns. It was a magical moment indeed -- pure gluttony in motion.

Of course, I also remember feeling at least mildly disappointed with the overall experience as we rode home afterwards. The scrambled eggs, the centerpiece of the meal, always seemed powdery and as cold as Silly Putty. And even though it was all-you-can-eat, I usually felt compelled to throw in the towel before I got truly full, probably because I was tired of fighting for my food like a dog. One of my general rules of thumb, even at a young age, was that a person should avoid suffering physical trauma during mealtime, if at all possible. I had recurring nightmares during this period as well: I’d be in the restaurant alone, and as I approached the wide-open well-stocked bar, clutching my warm plate in eager anticipation, a frightening man would suddenly step out from behind a tower of cutlets laughing dementedly through a beard of heavy gravy. He’d be wearing a sash of sausage links and gesticulating wildly with the syrup decanters where his hands should be. I’d try to scream but I’d suddenly find myself with one of those big meat apples plugged in my mouth. Inexplicably, I’d usually wake up afterwards with a throbbing erection, convinced that I could smell pancakes in my room. It was absolutely horrifying

My old pal, deep, deep humiliation paid a return visit as I was trying to get out of my car in front of The Old Country Buffet to meet my parents. My feet somehow got tangled up in the sack of Chuckles I munch on while driving, and I went down. A group of teenage girls was on hand to witness the event, as usual, and the snickering was deafening. Could it possibly be the same girls who witnessed my earlier wearing of the strawberry badge of disgrace? I’ll probably never know. But I made a mental note to redouble my efforts to watch what I eat, starting the very next day or the day after, and then entered the buffet with my head held high. I’m confident they never saw the tears.

Of course the aunts were lesbians. It didn’t take Mannix to connect the dots on those two old hay-balers, but that wasn’t the end of the story - not by a longshot. My mother tried to beat around the bush, so to speak, but Dad came right out with it. I had the full outline of the deal before we’d left salad mode. Get this: one of the “sisters” wasn’t even an aunt, she was the real aunt’s lover. You could’ve knocked me over with a french toast stick. My parents didn’t know everything, but what we pieced together during the second and third main courses is that the two ladies were lesbians in a time when society was less than accepting of such things. So the family made believe they were sisters, for the benefit of the outside world. That part I could almost understand, but where did the quick metabolism nonsense come from?

                                                                          continue>>

                                    
                 The West Virginia Surf Report!