by Dawn Lerman
But my dad would never taste food or uncover each and every subtle flavor the way my grandmother taught me. When he ate, it was fast, furious, and determined. It was as if he were filling in a hole inside himself, one that was large, deep, and hollow. I realized that my dad’s desire to devour everything in sight was a disease, one he could not control, one I knew I did not want to catch. “I can do it, I’m going to change,” he’d say, looking at the remnants of his frenzy. “I am just always so hungry.” My dad’s voice swung like a pendulum between hope and defeat.
By the time my mom, my sister, and I arrived at the Fat Farm, we hadn’t seen my dad for several months, and we were shocked and amazed to see he had lost more than one hundred pounds. “Twenty-three pounds the very first week!” he proudly declared. My dad said he thought about food all the time, and while the first couple of weeks were difficult, he now was getting used to the feeling of being starving all the time. He had gone from eight thousand calories a day to eight hundred calories. The thing that kept him motivated was dreaming that when he came back to New York he would have a real international Continental breakfast—Belgian waffles, Canadian bacon, French toast, and Swiss hot chocolate.
My dad was in surprisingly good spirits, which was a relief. Often when he was dieting, he was cranky and irritable, and he and my mom would be at odds, but this time he seemed quite upbeat and thoughtful.
“Hurry up,” he said, giving us a walking tour of the campus and some surrounding areas. My dad, who usually took cabs to go around the block, was now hard to keep up with, showing us the pool where he swam several laps a day and the tennis courts at a local hotel where he arranged for my sister and me to have a private lesson with a real tennis pro.
It looked like he was thriving—swimming, learning the city, and visiting the local malls, where he walked miles in circles, speeding up as he passed the fried chicken, doughnut, and hush puppy stands. From the time my dad woke up until the time he went to sleep, he wore a pedometer and was expected to take ten thousand steps a day. He said he was learning a lot of tricks to losing weight, including making exercise part of his daily routine and going to support groups, where he learned diet axioms that were helpful like “HALT”—Hungry, Angry, Lonely, and Tired. “Whenever I want to eat something that I know will not make me feel good, either physically or emotionally, I say to myself, ‘HALT!’ Am I hungry, angry, lonely, or tired? If I’m angry, I deal with that anger honestly. If it’s directed at someone, I speak to them; if it’s directed at myself, I deal with the reasons why.”
My dad really seemed like he was changing, not only physically but also emotionally. My mom commented, “It was like EST all over again, but the catch phrases seemed to be more effective, even though the price tag was equally as steep.” Usually self-help knew how to shrink my dad’s wallet—but not his waistline. My mom had little tolerance for people paying money to complain about their problems. “If something is wrong, why surround yourself with others who will just indulge you?” She seemed happy that my dad was accomplishing his goals instead of making excuses or cozying up to people who would give him sympathy while simultaneously draining his finances.
I felt relieved that maybe this time my dad’s weight loss would be real, and everyday activities like going on a bus would not be difficult or cause such distress. He normally took up two seats on an airplane or a bus. He definitely looked as if now he could fit on one seat.
At mealtime, we joined my dad in the dining hall with the fellow “Ricers” and ate what they were eating, even though the portions were almost invisible and none of us were overweight. There was no such thing as seconds. We ate the same meal, the same portions as the “inmates.” I felt like I was in the cast of Oliver!; I desperately wanted more. Breakfast was a miniscule bowl of white rice with a piece of either canned peach or pineapple. At lunchtime came a bowl of white rice with three ounces of chicken that had mineral oil rubbed on it. Dinner consisted of—you guessed it—white rice and three ounces of fish with no seasoning.
During meals, the dieters shared stories of their successes as well as their setbacks and escapades. Some followed the routine as instructed, weighing in at 7:30 a.m., eating only at the Rice House, and exercising six hours a day. The naughty Ricers spent their time cheating, ordering in pizza, and pulling pranks like duct taping doors shut to see who could not make it through the night without a junk food run.
One famous comedian told me how he poured apple juice into the required urine specimen container left outside my dad’s door at night—making it look like my dad was cheating when they tested his sugar and sodium levels. Dr. Kempner, the creator and head of the program, reprimanded my dad in front of all the other dieters. “You, and you alone, are accountable for your actions,” he said, embarrassing him and demanding he step on the scale.
“Al is such a bad boy!” they all said in unison. My dad looked boyish and modest as his new friends poked fun at him about getting singled out by the feared doctor.
“You should be proud of your daddy, he is really dedicated. No one can even get him to sneak out and head to ‘Sin City,’” said a rather large lady with a funny accent, big frosted hair, and a sparkly velour jogging suit. I just smiled, having no idea what she was talking about.
She must have seen my confusion, so she clarified what she meant. “Sin City is the strip, baby. Every beautiful, greasy, fast-food restaurant that you could think of is there for the taking, beckoning me, ‘Rhonda, come here. I know you want me, sweetheart.’”
“Everyone wants you here, honey. Are you going for husband number three or four?” shouted the comedian, batting his eyes at her.
“Keep this G-rated, people. My daughters are underage. Rhonda, I will not be back next year or the year after, nor do I have any intentions of cheating or losing my job,” my father proclaimed.
“Oh yeah, we forgot you’re a big shot now. Your dad has his picture on the community board. ‘Ricer of the month!’”
“One hundred pounds and I’m not done yet!”
I was so happy for my dad and wanted to be as supportive as possible, smiling every time the rice was presented to me, but every time I ate the overcooked white rice, it gave me a stomachache. Not wanting to offend anyone, I would push it aside, wrap the sticky, bland rice into my napkin, and then pass it to my sister, who would amuse herself by making little snowmen and spitballs out of it. My dad even caught her firing a couple at some of the people with really large bellies. No one wanted to encourage her, but everyone cracked up watching the rice balls flying through the air.
I think I was the only one, but I liked the chicken—not overly seasoned, the way Beauty liked to prepare her meat. The Rice Diet was a low-sodium, low-fat diet, so nothing had salt, which made a huge difference in the way I felt. Whenever I ate something salty, I swelled up. “I’m dizzy and my toes are popping out of my shoes,” I would tell my mom. My grandmother told her it was salt, but my mom was skeptical. “You’re just being picky.” Maybe she didn’t want to change our meals at home, which mainly consisted of high-sodium prepackaged frozen foods—Stouffer’s, Oscar Mayer, and Swanson were as much as my mother could handle.
I loved talking to the experts at the Fat Farm, especially the dietician who diagnosed my iodine sensitivity. She validated what I already knew, what I instinctually felt. Everybody always made fun of me when we went to a restaurant and I asked for no salt on whatever I ordered or refused to eat fast food. A “snob,” my mom would say. Her words hurt my belly almost as much as the food.
The experts at Duke were very welcoming. I asked questions, I sat in classes, I went to the family support groups. “Why does the rice give me such an awful stomachache? How do you know everybody should eat the same thing? Why are there no Red Delicious apples allowed?”
I asked why some people craved salty food while others craved sweet food. My sister craved fish and chips, the greasier the better. I loved things plain
and was happy munching on cucumbers, carrots, and unsalted shelled sunflower seeds all day. My mom had an adverse reaction to all fruits. My dad seemed to be fine with all foods, but maybe that was because he was used to not feeling particularly great. While everyone was amused with my interest, no one really answered my questions, and even at the Fat Farm my curiosity about food and diet could not be satisfied.
My mother and my sister were getting sick of eating—or not eating—at the Rice House, meal after meal. Once a week, Dr. Kempner allowed my dad to eat off-campus at a Duke University–preapproved restaurant. A lot of the establishments in the area had a special menu for the Ricers. The whole town seemed to be focused around them. When you entered the town of Durham, there was a sign that read, “Welcome to Fat City.” But the weight experts at the Fat Farm made sure the dieters were always prepared, packing them emergency bags with special condiments—a plastic spray bottle of salad dressing, a tin of saccharin, and some packets of salt substitute—for when they were off campus.
My dad even had some kind of weird stick that he dipped in his diet soda before he drank it to make sure it was really diet. The stick would turn colors if there was sugar. My dad had finally conquered his cravings and knew just one taste of sugar, salt, or fat could have undone months of work. My dad ordered grilled mushrooms and white fish for the table, “Without salt, bones, oil, or flavor, please.”
The waiter smiled, bringing my sister and me milk in plastic-covered cups and a word scramble of local sights to amuse us. “We have been serving Ricers and their families for years. We know how to spoil you on your big night out.” My dad looked nervous, hoping the boisterous waiter, who was rather plump, had heard his request—knowing that after months of deprivation, he would probably eat whatever the waiter put in front of him.
The mushrooms were covered with onions and parsley, and the fish was moist, steamed with leeks and lemon slices. While it was not osso buco or caviar, the taste of real food was calming and almost euphoric. We all ate slowly, knowing what our fate would be tomorrow back at the Rice House. It was one of the best meals my family ever had together, and no one missed the rice. My sister and I pinky swore that this was the kind of meal we would eat every night when we were grown-ups. When my mother asked what kind of secrets were we telling, we said nothing, knowing that she would be mad thinking that cooking a big meal was what we expected of her.
Arriving home from the Fat Farm, my mother was horrified to learn she had gained ten pounds. She immediately went back to her usual pattern of eating one small meal a day of tuna fish with hot sauce, while standing and chatting on the phone. My dad stayed on a couple more months, determined to lose another fifty pounds. He lost seventy-five. One hundred and seventy-five in total.
When asked how he could tolerate rice for so long, he answered, “It keeps you light on your feet,” as he performed a little shuffle. That line became the slogan for his new campaign—the TaB Dance, featuring Gene Kelly and Broadway star Tommy Tune.
“TaB. It keeps you light on your feet.”
Salmon and Leeks Baked in Parchment Paper
Yield: 1 serving, but make as many packages as needed and lay them all on a baking sheet
2 16-inch sheets of baking parchment paper (or tin foil) for lining the baking sheet
2 rosemary sprigs, or basil or dill, or whatever fresh herbs you have on hand
1 6-ounce salmon fillet, rinsed
Salt and pepper, to taste
1⁄4 cup chopped zucchini or other squash
3 cherry tomatoes, halved
1 garlic clove, chopped
1 tablespoon dry white wine
Juice of half a small lemon or lime
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Place a double layer of parchment paper on a baking sheet. Lay the herbs in the center of the paper and place the salmon on top of the sprigs. Season with salt and pepper. Spoon the zucchini or other squash, tomatoes, and garlic over the fish.
Pour the white wine over everything. Seal the packet closed by folding the long sides of the paper together. Fold all ends to make a package and flip over. Place the sealed square(s) on the baking sheet. Make sure each square is sealed tightly so no steam can escape.
Bake for 15 minutes. Before serving, slowly open the package and squeeze the lemon juice over the fish. Use a spatula to transfer to a plate.
Duke University Weight-Loss Rice
Yield: 4 small servings
2 cups water
1 cup white rice
Bring the water to a rolling boil. Add the rice and reduce heat. Cover the pot and cook for about 30 minutes, until all the liquid has been absorbed. Fluff and serve with an ounce of unsweetened canned peaches or pineapple.
9
The Big Reveal
Macrobiotic Apple Pie, Tomato Aspic, Sweet-and-Sour Meatballs
After spending six months at Duke University’s Fat Farm in Durham, North Carolina, eating mostly white rice and small bits of fruit and protein, my dad had lost half of his body weight. When he returned to New York, no one recognized him—not the little Portuguese man at the corner newspaper store, which my dad frequented for diet sodas and candy bars, not our neighbors downstairs to whom my dad paid our monthly rent checks for the brownstone we rented, and not even his bosses who’d sponsored his leave of absence in the hopes that his image would match the success of the advertising campaigns that he launched. Mr. Reynolds was proud that his star employee had succeeded. My dad’s first day back at work, his boss turned to the client and said, “Looks like we just lost half of our creative team.”
My dad went to the Fat Farm weighing 350 pounds and returned home at 175 pounds. With his new weight came a new confidence, a new hairstyle, and a new wardrobe. My dad permed his hair, shortened his sideburns, and went shopping—plaid blazers, turtlenecks, and tight pants now hugged his lean frame. When he left, he looked like a bloated Elvis; when he came back, he looked like The Six Million Dollar Man. For the first time in his life, my dad was not heavy, and he could shop at a regular department store, buying clothes off the rack that were in style. When he walked down the street, he was able to move rapidly, and nobody looked twice or gasped when he passed. He now looked like everyone else and was ready to take a break from what he basically called an extended fast.
To celebrate my dad’s homecoming and success, my mom was going to host one of her lively potluck dinners. She hoped that my dad’s weight loss would not only help his career but would help revive their marriage and our family life. My dad was usually so consumed with his diets that there was no time for my sister, my mom, and me. Before my dad went to the Fat Farm, he was tired and had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning. When he awoke, there was a complex diet regimen to follow that involved weighing himself and taking handfuls of pills—appetite suppressants, water pills, blood pressure pills, energy pills, cholesterol pills, even pills for special occasions—weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.
Nights were consumed with trying to impress his employers. My dad always felt he needed to work twice as hard and be twice as funny as anyone else to distract people from the way he looked. My mom hoped with his new healthy weight that he would have a little more energy to focus his affections on her and her attributes. My dad used to boast that my mom threw the best parties. “Nobody knows how to do it quite like your mom. She is the only person in Manhattan that can entertain a house full of people on ten dollars without lifting a finger. She is a real Auntie Mame,” he’d playfully say.
My mom was at her best when she was surrounded by admirers—complimenting her on her wonderful Native American jewelry, her intriguing artifacts from all over the world, and her bubbly, magnetic personality that turned a simple gathering into live theater. My parents’ close circle of friends were extremely eccentric—numerologists, musicians, artists, photographers, writers, dancers, and dramatic performers who had moved to Manhattan from all over the globe to pursue their creat
ive endeavors. My mom had the talent of keeping in touch with everyone she ever met, and no one was ever turned away from our home or celebrations.
My parents’ diverse group of friends represented that they had arrived, that they were a part of something fabulous—exciting, groovy, and mod. It made them feel accomplished that they had escaped their Midwestern upbringings. Their friends were a symbol of their success and also of their partnership. They needed each other to achieve their dreams. My mom kept my dad motivated, making sure he arrived to work on time and that he saved more money than he spent. My dad liked to spend money as much as he liked to eat, so my mom controlled their finances, usually keeping the refrigerator empty and their bank account full.
People seemed to genuinely adore my parents—my dad for his quick wit and charm, and my mom for her intellect and high energy. My mother was always upbeat and honest, and never burdened anyone with her problems. When my mom said she was having a party to celebrate my dad losing weight, all their friends were anxious to attend one of her legendary gatherings. Plus, they wanted to get a look at my father. Nobody could imagine my dad being super-slim.
“Joanne, you will never recognize him. I keep passing him in the halls thinking there is a stranger in the house. You have to see him; he looks like a movie star.”
In preparation for my dad’s debut party, my mom spent hours on the phone inviting everyone she knew to her potluck. She encouraged all the guests to bring a healthy dish. My mom would not be cooking or providing food, but she was providing the venue, an interesting array of guests, and the man of the hour, and as always, she assured everyone it would be an unforgettable night of music, performance art, and lively conversation. She instructed everyone on what to prepare, so there would be a variety of ethnic and eclectic appetizers, main dishes, and desserts. “Persis, bring that wonderful extra-spicy curried chicken stew with the hard-boiled eggs. Felicia, everyone flips for your tomato aspic and sweet-and-sour meatballs. Michael, bring that extra-strong sangria with apple slices that brings out the best in everyone. Joanne, bring your Jell-O mold; it always makes such a bright, beautiful centerpiece. Nadejda, everyone looks forward to your Bulgarian Moussaka with potatoes. No party of mine would be complete without it. Tandy, you are always so good at picking the perfect dessert. Just make sure it is not too fattening.”