On Eating Inedible Food
When I was little, I remember
my cousin complaining
about her casserole.
“Eat it,” her mom said.
“There are people starving in Africa.”
“Ship it over!”
my cousin said defiantly.
When my husband
insists on eating everything,
whether he likes it or not,
whether he’s stuffing himself or not,
whether it might be going bad or not,
I say, “Throw it away!
It won’t save anyone in Africa.”
Maybe eating less and giving the food
we would have eaten to a food bank
would help us be more grateful,
like my aunt was trying to teach my cousin.
Maybe fixing smaller portions would free
my husband, who had a depression-era mom,
to not feel guilty for throwing food away.
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