Body Image Life Story – Part 1

Genoa salami is fun to eat. Like an Oreo, there’s no particular way to eat it that’s correct. It can be sliced or cut into chunks, served cold with cheese, or made part of a sandwich. It can be shredded and put into the cavity of a chicken with provolone and mozzarella, herbs, and cubes of summer squash or zucchini to add glorious flavor to roasted fowl. It is an integral part of antipasto and a necessary ingredient of Subway’s Spicy Italian sub – an item that is not on the official menu but is secretly available at every Subway Sandwich Shop in America. Just ask. The Sandwich Technician behind the counter will reward you with a small smile, murmur “Ahh!” and be properly dazzled by your superior knowledge of the secrets of the business to which his temporal life is currently dedicated.

My favorite way to eat Genoa salami was to take a thin slice, fold it into triangular quarters, and bite off the tip. Just a nibble, mind you. Then, I would unfold it and see the hole left behind. Refolding it, I would nibble again at the center, making the hole just a bit larger or changing its placement ever so slightly. No slice of salami was eaten this way in less than three bites. Folding it into eighths, I could get creative with nibbles along the sides of the folded salami slice and make salami snowflakes. Playing with my food? Heavens, no! I was discovering the gourmet’s way of embellishing ordinary food to make it extraordinary. Garnishing, as it were. I was an artiste.

My mother bought the salami in packages distributed by Hormel. In each package, about fifteen slices three inches in diameter cascaded down like round, fallen dominoes. Some had sliced black peppercorns in them – these were unique and the best. When nibbling circles or making snowflakes one incorporated the peppercorn to show off its artful placement like the beauty mark it was. Fresh out of the fridge, the salami was difficult to separate into individual slices. Like bacon, it must warm up a bit in the room’s air to soften, its gluey white flecks melting into near-translucence and imparting a palpable sheen to each delectable slice. Then, it would be easy to separate, to fold, to nibble.

After school one day, I was lying on my stomach in the den watching TV. It may have been Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. It was before we moved into Mom and Dad’s current home in the summer of 1972, so I was less than ten years old. I was busy eating the center out of a slice of this gourmand’s fantasy when my mother came up behind me. She shrieked and pointed to my creation.

“What are you doing?!”

Startled, I looked up at her.

“Don’t you see all the fat in that?” she cried, completely beside herself with horror and indignation. I looked at my salami slice. It was pliable and had a medium-sized hole in its center. Not quite round and a little off-center, the hole nonetheless represented a respectable attempt to place itself exactly in the middle of the slice. I said nothing.

“All of those white spots!” My mother was aghast. “Each and every one of those white spots is fat, which will stick to you and make you fat! You will never be thin if you keep eating this stuff!”

I felt like crying. I felt as though my integrity had been compromised. I felt small, insignificant, and stupid. I felt defiant. I felt fat. Of course, I recognized that the white flecks in the salami were fat. But that’s how salami is made, with those little white spots. It wouldn’t be salami without the little white spots.

I don’t recall that I responded to her at all except to look shamefaced. After that, I would sometimes poke out the larger white spots before the salami became too greasy.

Last Updated on October 16, 2024 by