War zone

I was fortunate to not grow up in one of those families where mealtime resembled a war zone, with individuals having to be quick-witted and quick-handed if they wanted to get any food. Since getting married, however, this situation has changed dramatically.

Not that we fight over our food. We are too refined for that. No, Joe brilliantly deploys the Stealth Food Attack method, wherein the last portion of some food or snack -- generally containing chocolate ingredients -- that I have been saving, and looking forward to savoring, mysteriously disappears.

This circumstance has forced me to resort to Food Camouflage. Since anything in plain sight will likely be stolen by the other side, I secretly hide whatever it is I want to protect in the back of the refrigerator. Bars of gold could be stashed back there, and they would never be discovered. The only things that exist for Joe are in the very front row of the refrigerator. Many a treasured food item has been saved in this manner.

But it is not always possible to hide things. Some must be stored in plain sight -- the Danger Zone -- with the knowledge that at any moment, Stealth Man may come and whisk them away.

Last night I was anticipating consuming the last of the Black Bean Tamale Pie for dinner while Joe went to class. My food radar immediately went off when I opened the refrigerator to put something else away. There, where my Black Bean Tamale Pie should have been, was a big hole. Stealth Man strikes again!

Stealth Man is very, very lucky he is not here right now, I thought. His class had saved him from great bodily harm.

But I confronted him when he came home. "I thought we had an agreement," I said, "wherein you ask me if I want something before taking the last of it."

"Well, see, I did have that conversation with you," he said. "In my head. I imagined myself asking you if I could have it, and I imagined you saying yes."

I told him next time to imagine me standing guard in front of my food with a heavy metal object. This is, after all, war.