My doctor complains that I haven’t lost weight, despite her repeated counsel.
I explain that the problem lies in the fact that I’m wedded to an Italian culinary prodigy.
I’m supposed to ask my bride to stop making her fettuccine alfredo. Those homemade noodles bathed in butter and cream, topped with grated Romano, and crowned with fresh cracked pepper.
Also have her discontinue making her lasagna.
Or gnocchi. Those tiny dumplings made with flour, eggs, parmigiana and riced potatoes, then sauteed with imported porcini mushrooms.
Or her meatballs, the ones she serves with her ravioli.
And ask her to stop making her chicken piccata.
That and more is what the doctor wants me to have her discontinue.
It would be like asking Shakespeare not to write.
Telling Michelangelo not to paint.
Asking Pavarotti not to sing.
Fred Astaire not to dance.
Beethoven to quit composing.
Columbus to forget sailing.
Telling Thomas Edison we’re fine with candles.
Asking Muhammed Ali to stay out of the ring.
Or telling Julius Caesar we can live without his salad dressing.
My wife, like such renowned notability, has her own distinction.
That incomparable cuisine.
She even makes her own cheese, turning milk into velvety ricotta.
If we weren’t living in an area with a homeowners association, she’d see to it that we’d have a few cows.
And goats.
Chickens too.
Instead, she’s buying milk, eggs and poultry from the local supermarket.
But she knows how to turn them all into cheese, pasta, pastry and a dozen variations of delicious chicken dinners.
And that’s what my doctor wants me to suspend.
She even wants me to forgo certain vegetables. In particular, the ones my wife prepares.
Like broccoli dredged in eggs and breadcrumbs then fried in olive oil.
Or her eggplant parmigiana, which she stuffs with ricotta, grated cheese, and tops with her homemade tomato sauce before baking.
Or her stuffed peppers, green bean casserole, baked zucchini, stuffed mushrooms or roasted cauliflower.
The doctor also wants me to pass on her osso buco, mostaccioli, risotto and shrimp scampi.
She wouldn’t approve any of the above-mentioned delights, and wants all my vegetables to be served without enhancements.
She also wants me to waive my wife’s amazing desserts.
Like that incredible cheesecake she prepares using her homemade ricotta together with cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, flour, eggs and a dash of grated lemon rind. Then she adds a coating of buttered graham cracker crumbs to decorate the sides, finally topping it all with glazed strawberries.
And if it’s not her cheesecake, she might prepare cannoli, rainbow cookies, tiramisu, sfogliatelle or zeppole.
Instead, the doctor says she wants me to maintain a plain, unenhanced diet.
Nothing baked, fried, sweetened or barbecued.
And no butter, oil, bread, cheese, cake, cookies or joy.
She expects me to have the same cuisine the inmates at San Quentin consume, even though I never robbed a bank, stole a car or set anything on fire.
Yet I share the same fate as the most infamous felons.
With no homemade lasagna.
No ravioli, shrimp scampi, risotto, eggplant …
Or cheesecake.
Erdos is a freelance humor columnist. Contact him at irverdos@aol.com.