Banned from the Buffet

I should be banned from buffets.  I'm not sure I'm mature enough to handle them. Whatever food cutoff valve I'm supposed to have, gets disconnected, and I don't stop until it's way too late.

We recently went to a buffet that specialized in pizza.  My son was back from a week at camp, Father's Day was approaching, and we thought it was a good way to celebrate.  The food was good, with a plethora of specialty pizzas being set out, new ones every few minutes.

I would get the slices I wanted, a relatively tame two or three pieces, when they would announce a new kind of pizza being set out.  Well, there was no way I was not going to try the new one.  That would be rude not to try it.  And then, just when you thought you were sated, they would set out the pizza of your dreams, the perfect combination of toppings, sauce and crust.  And this could go on for hours - the new wonders just wouldn't stop.

For dessert, one of  my greatest human weaknesses was set out, iced cinnamon rolls.  I'm not proud.  I lost count of how many I had.

I have been doing much better with diet and exercise recently, losing weight and improving my blood pressure.  In one fell swoop, I had consumed about as many calories as I had in a week.

I am not alone in my irresponsible indulgence at buffets.  My Dad had a similar problem.  The first buffet I remember the family going to was at a restaurant in Northern Michigan, when I was only about ten.  It was so long ago, that where we went was called not a buffet, but a smorgasbord, and it featured Scandinavian foods.

My father had a farming background, in a very frugal family, and he was a charter member of the "Clean Your Plate" club.  He always strived to eat everything set before him.  Well, he didn't know how to handle a smorgasbord. How could you eat everything when they had set out so much?

Finally, after much consumption, I went back to the restroom with my Dad, where he upchucked his entire meal.  He was not a heavy set man, and was prone to healthy eating but not over-eating, but he had simply lost his mind at the smorgasbord.  After he cleared out his smogasbordic contents, he was in a different frame of mind than the rest of us, moaning in discomfort over our overindulgence. Imagine how we felt upon leaving the restaurant, and my Dad asking as we piled in the car, "Hey! Who's up for ice cream?"

Like father, like son.  Minus the barfing part.  Mine just turns into another layer of fat.

I should be banned from the buffet.  Whenever I forget, Alison just needs to remind me, "Are you sure?  Do you remember what happened last time?"

I do.  I remember the pain. I remember the weight gain.

And then I remember the cinnamon rolls.