Just what does the Great Depression have to do with me being overweight?

Stepping on the bathroom scale the other day, I noticed I had actually lost some weight. About eight pounds.

Not a lot, when you consider how many total pounds I carry (which is a state secret). But still, a nice thing to have happen.

I used to be normal.

In fact, there were times in my adult life when I was positively skinny.

What happened, you ask?

It's all the fault of the Great Depression.

Let me explain.

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid there was one rule at the dinner table: you had to clean off your plate at every meal. No food was wasted. Even if it was food you disliked. Like canned peas, my nemesis as a child.

My mother always provided a well-balanced meal for her family at the end of each day.

Plates carried some form of potato, a meat (which could be meatloaf, ham, pork chops, etc.) and a vegetable.

Sunday's were special. We had T-bone steaks.

The from-the-garden portion of the meal might be a tossed salad if we were having spaghetti and meatballs.

Or it could be green beans. Corn was popular (it was my favorite, although it wasn't green). But every so often, for variety and, I think, some exercise of parent authority, my mother would serve canned peas.

They were disgusting. Tiny green, mushy nodules that had no crunch and a flavor to match their appearance.

But I was required to eat as many of them as I could, to the point where there were none, or at least, only a few remaining on my plate.

On nights we had peas I was always the last one to leave the dinner table.

I dallied, sometimes attempting to hide peas under some mashed potatoes. But with the house "clean off your plate'' rule, that didn't work very well. "You have potatoes left. Eat them,'' my mother would say. It was only when I started gagging that I was released from the misery.

However, it's decades later and I still clean off my plate. It's a habit that has been forced into my psyche.

That wouldn't be so bad if we weren't too inclined to heap massive portions of food onto our plates, in a manner like we had never eaten before nor would again.

I understand how the rule originated. My parents are both veterans of the Great Depression.

Dad grew up on a farm where food was aplenty. In fact, his mother talked about how picky an eater he was until after he got home from serving in the Army during WWII.

Then he'd eat just about anything. And, he ate it all.

Mom, on the other hand, although not coming from a destitute situation, suffered enough deprivation as a child to appreciate not wasting things.

So, my brother and I and millions of other Baby Boomers were the beneficiaries of this waste not, want not philosophy.

But how will I ever reconcile these opposing philosophies as I look at the grotesque heap I call my stomach, which sort of oozes over the top of my pants, and struggle with the inner voice that keeps telling me to "clean off that plate. Don't waste any food.''

I don't think I can. I'm a victim of my culture and upbringing. I can blame the Great Depression for being way too fat today. I can also blame the habit we have of offering endless varieties and portions of food in special value meals.

And, I add the fact that after six o'clock in the evening, it seems every other commercial on television is hawking some scrumptious looking item ready to tickle our taste buds at a time of day when we should abstain.

I know, I know. Just don't eat as much.

But taking less food makes the plate look skinny.

Leaving food on the plate for disposal makes me feel I am wasteful.

So what's the answer? How should I know? What I have learned is never write a column about food until after you have eaten.

It makes me hungry.

Have a good day.