Cherubic Drew

Last July, Basil and I brought my grandparents down to visit my Uncle Richard and Aunt Cindy in South Carolina. Basil and I packed plenty of fresh ingredients for Basil to cook when we arrived there, as we always do when we travel. My Uncle Richard had inspired me to cook in my early 20s my gifting me several Molly Katzen cookbooks right after my father died. I was excited to have Basil cook and share his amazing food with my uncle and everyone else.

The first afternoon we were there, Basil was in the process of making one of my favorite summer time lunches: kale chips and made-from-scratch veggie burgers. I sat watching Basil strip kale leaves from their stalks as I prepared to do what would be the extent of my own food prep for the day: cutting limes to make a margarita.

Grandpa Marvin, father to Uncle Richard and my father, had been sitting quietly in a corner not far off the kitchen, watching Basil work his magic.

“You eat all of this freshly prepared, healthy food,” my grandfather spoke up suddenly, “but you’re still fat.”

I turned to look at my grandfather, broken from the reverie that commonly overtakes me when I get to sit and relax and watch my old man cook. It was the 4th of July weekend and I was on vacation. And my grandfather would have never have considered insulting me if my father was still around, standing in this kitchen.

I decided to ignore the comment and got up to fetch a rocks glass so I could commence margarita making.

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I have been told from as early as I can remember, with the exception of the few years I spent being fed amphetamines, that I am not thin enough. But it was watching family members fall to cardiovascular diseases and stroke that motivated me to eat better. And it was only when I learned how to practice better self care that I was able to commit to an exercise regimen.

My blood pressure routinely clocks in at 105/80. To continue being prescribed testosterone, I am required to have extensive blood panels done every six to twelve months. My cholesterol and other blood-related stats obtained from these panels are in the good, happy doctor, green-light range. These stats, combined with the mobility and stamina I currently possess from my Daily Burn workout habits, I find to be a true picture of my good health.

My grandparents, who are in their mid-nineties, spend lots of time dealing with doctors. I have often been surprised that they do not ask me about these more accurate indicators of my health: my blood pressure, any insulin resistance, cholesterol levels. Instead they choose to focus on the softness in my tummy.

But they have also failed to noticed an indicator of my much improved mental health over the past few years: I am visibly happy so much more of the time. This is, in large part, due to Basil’s influence on my life (although he will take limited to no credit for this). Anyone who has ever been interested in the quality of my mental health, whether they be friends, family, or co-workers, has positively commented on how much happier I have been the last few years.

And anyone who cares about my mental health is kind to Basil. Much like failing to discuss any indicators of my actual health with me, while my grandparents have been socially polite to Basil, they have not taken any opportunities to express genuine kindness to him.

I have expressed regret about this to Basil on the many occasions we have visited them.

To which Basil responds, “Oh they don’t have to be especially nice to me honey. But they should be nicer to you.”

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There are no chubby people on the Siegel side of the family. I cannot think of a cousin, a great uncle, not a damn one. This is not because every Siegel is in perfect health, is an exercise buff, or eats well. They just seemed genetically predisposed to being of a more slender build. There are chubby folks a plenty on the Drew side of the family and I have definitely inherited a great deal of the Drew body type.

Maybe this is why my grandparents have always taken me to task for not being thin: my chubbiness, combined with some very Drew facial features (like my nose), reminds them of my mother, the person they never wanted their son to marry. This is not unlike how, because they are my father’s parents, I was long inclined to assume they contained the same admirable traits my father did and loved me as my father did.

Sometimes I imagine my grandparents and I observing ourselves represented in an oil painting in a museum that doesn’t exist. The physical representation, while relatively faithful, disappoints us with all of the metaphysical qualities it fails to convey.