Yesterday I went out to lunch because I had a headache, my peanut butter sandwich didn't appeal and I wanted a break. What I ordered was good (a turkey-dill omelet) but not quite to my liking--there was something sweet in it although I never discovered what it was.
But being raised to eat everything on my plate, I ate it all. And told the waitress it was good. Why? Because I've been a lifelong member of The Clean Plate Club. I am betting there are quite a few members of the same club who read this blog.
Rules for membership in this not-so-exclusive club are simple. You were born sometime between 1945 and 1970; your parents or grandparents remember the Great Wars and/or the Great Depression. You were one of the babies born to replace the men killed in the war (thus the Baby Boom generation). Your family ate dinner at a specified time, together, every day.
You probably had some dinner rules similar to those that governed our evening meal:
1. Children should be seen and not heard
2. Children should not speak unless spoken to
3. Children should eat everything on their plate!
And with that last rule was born the Clean Plate Club.
To this day I follow Rule #3. I feel uncomfortable when I scrape something off my plate into the trash (starving children in China rise up before my eyes), and I feel guiltily wasteful (do I think money grows on trees?) and like I've been inconsiderate of someone's feelings (someone slaved over a hot stove to prepare that food).
Are there any members of the Club out there? Raise your hands!