The art of eating slowly

The concept of chewing your food and tasting every morsel has its roots in Buddhist teachings. According to this school of thought, eating slowly and relishing each bite could be the solution to solving the global problem of obesity.

It is believed that the longer you take over a meal, the less likely you are to overeat. This is based on the premise that the intensity of flavour is sharpened by slowing down the process of ingestion. The deceleration keeps us aware of every mouthful and more inclined to listen to what our stomach tells us — something along the lines of ‘That's more than enough. Stop now before it's too late'.

I truly believe that all this is perfect logic. But I am sorry to say that my experience has been very different. First and foremost, in my family it was the survival of the fastest. Slow and steady won no races, especially when it came to meal times. Short of a stampede, we took our places at the table in haste, coming to a decorous stop only when the presence of the parents registered.

Even as chairs were drawn out and we seated ourselves, our eyes were on the main non-vegetarian dish. The vegetables and lentils were incidental accompaniments.

Number-crunching

This was the time our knowledge of maths came in handy. The number of pieces were added up and then divided by the total of family members to ensure everyone got a fair deal. It was important for the lady of the house to get her maths right. One more or one less only meant trouble.

This unfortunate turn of events eventually brought forth reminiscence such as sibling No 4 telling sibling No 3, "Remember the last time? You had the extra piece. So, it's my turn now."

Such statements were always made with the utmost conviction that the other person's memory wasn't as good as yours. The slightest hesitation on the face of the person being spoken to could be construed as victory.

We, too, were told to eat slowly, not to talk with our mouths full. But we were sure that this was merely a ploy to rein in our galloping hunger.

Each time we were told to slow down, we looked at the others to see if they were following suit. Only then would we surrender.

Each of us had experienced the bitterness of being lulled into a false sense of security only to be shamelessly betrayed.

So it was a case of "I'll do so if the others also do the same". If the admonition was directed at you, you quickly turned the spotlight on a sibling stuffing his face. Caught in the act, the person would try to mumble his way into the parents' good books only to discover that a crammed mouth does not lend itself to plausible justification.

In fact, so great was our passion for eating that my brothers would compete with each other in who could wolf down more pancakes or idlis or vadas (staple south Indian breakfast fare).

The dare would be taken up with no thought for the provider of the meal who had to keep pace with their appetite. But once the gauntlet was picked up, there was no turning back. The only plus point of this exercise, as far as my mother was concerned, was that one of them was sure to end up sickened to the stomach and declare that he didn't want to see that particular dish again for a long, long time.

Thereafter, each time that particular ‘delight' was made, the others made it a point of drawing his attention to it. The sight of his face turning a peculiar shade of grey only added to our glee.