How do you eat a Mars bar?

My mother has never been a baker. She did go through a phase of making cherry biscuits, from a recipe of her sister’s, I believe, and she always made us birthday cakes, but routine baking for dessert was not her thing. 

Which is why, one day in the early 70s, my older sister and younger brother and I found ourselves sharing one Mars bar — one, between the three of us — for dessert. It was terribly important that it be divided equally so, of course, the eldest took it upon herself to perform the task. With almost mathematical precision (could she possibly have used a ruler?), Katy cut the bar into three pieces. One for each of us. Competition among us was healthy, so the game became who could make that small piece of heavenly sweetness last the longest? 

Not me, it turns out. I scarfed mine down in a couple of happy bites. It was Katy who made it last well into the afternoon by cutting off impossibly thin slices and letting them melt on her tongue. I don't recall how Charles ate his share, but it was torture for me to see Katy “win” in this slow and deliberate way. 

Who enjoyed that dessert more? Hard to say, but I can attest that I continue to take great enjoyment from my food, including dessert, by eating it with gusto. I want those flavours in my mouth and the benefit of that food in my gut — now! A chocolate biscuit? Gone in three bites. A bowl of pasta? Devoured with jaw-stretched-open mouthfuls of the deliciousness. A bag of potato chips? One or two delicately eaten is not my style; it’s more like handfuls for me. 

Which brings me to yogurt at the cottage, in July. Balkan-style yogurt is hard to come by in Manitoba’s Interlake and, when found, can be transported between shop cooler and cottage fridge in only limited quantities. It is, therefore, inevitable, that we will run out of that delicious sharp-tasting breakfast item before the next trip to town. My preference is to eat a good helping of it every day on my granola until it’s gone, then improvise with milk — or have toast for breakfast instead. My partner, on the other hand, prefers to eke it out, with a little bit each day until the next grocery run. 

My eating philosophy seems to have always been — and continues to be — abundance while it lasts, then improvise with alternatives (or simply go without). Others in my life take a more scarcity approach to the food on hand. We are all fed, but I do wonder if my abundant approach doesn’t nurture a greater sense of unbridled joy in the eating.  

Quite possibly, the necessarily ever-expanding waistband on my trousers gives the answer.