A while back I read a magazine article (which I now can’t find) about a woman who spent an entire month living in a 1950s style household, eating meals prepared precisely as called for in 1950s recipes, performing housework exactly as a housewife would have done it in the 1950s.
She lost 14 pounds in a month. It was, she said, the easiest and best diet/exercise program she’d ever been on.
Now, I’m not about to go out and replace my nice upright vacuum with one of those horrid, awkward cannister things that turn floor cleaning into a wrestling match. Nor am I going to start mopping my kitchen floor daily whilst wearing high heels and a pearl necklace.
I am, however, doing my best to remember that even if she was eating steak, home fries, creamed peas, corn bread and a glass of milk for dinner, she was still consuming fewer calories than I’m probably getting in my Cobb salad. Consider, for instance, the drastic portion size difference that’s taken place.
At what point did we begin to expect larger portions even though it means higher prices — and bigger waistlines? I really don’t remember, but it’s interesting to see that the portion size pendulum has begun to swing back to the other, smaller side.
At TGIFriday restaurants, for instance, they’re now advertising smaller menu options at prices that aren’t all that significantly smaller. Yet I’m happy to pay for them anyway because I know that such a choice won’t do as much damage to my diet as its larger counterpart on the regular menu.
Interesting, isn’t it, that as we continue to battle the bulge in America we’re starting to equate “value” not so much with serving size but with how it fits our lifestyles, instead.
(The bandwidth for this post has been compensated by this mention of Century furniture.)
Chubby Mommy