Mangia, Mangia!

Last Christmas, one of my (male) roommates got me a calendar entitled "Porn for Women." It has pictures of mostly-clothed men saying things like, "I don't have any advice, but I'm a good listener, " and "I don't have to have a reason to bring you flowers!" It's up in our kitchen.

Mr. September is urging us to have another piece of cake, because he doesn't like to see us looking so thin.

Ladies, take heart, because men like this exist! Not just in calendars, but in real life.

In Connecticut, in fact.

I hear my dad say this to my mom just about every time I visit: "Eat up, Bon! You're too skinny!" She has to keep turning away big pieces of cake and pie. He does it with me, too, though I don't need as much urging. Dad remembers with pride the night when I was fifteen and the family went to a buffet that had a whole separate table full of desserts, and I got one of everything.

Part of this is my dad's personal aesthetic -- he grew up in the era of Marilyn Monroe, where a little wiggle in a girl's walk was considered a good thing. Part of it may be his disbelief that we women get full on less food than he does. But in recent years, I've come to believe there's a third contributing truth:

My dad is an Italian mom.

Food equals love. You doubt me? Mamaluke, what do you know? Hit yourself upside the head for me.

Ray Romano does a standup bit about Italian and Jewish "food mothers": If you want a lot more, tell her you want a little more. If you want a little more, say you don't want any. If you don't want any, you have to shoot her.

I haven't had to shoot Dad yet.

But that's because I usually do want another piece of cake.