The 'Thank You Very Much' Girl

When I was a child, my parents and grandparents labeled me the 'No Thank You' Kid.

My gramps would push the sweets: 'Want some pie Helen?"

"No thank you."

Mom would call for dinner, "Helen Anne, spagetti ?"

"No thank you"

I'd be watching TV when my grandmother would put an afternoon snack in front of me "Helen Anne want a perogi?"

"No Thank You."

My dad would hand me his cup at coffee hour, at church, "Want some of my coffee Hel?"

"No Thank You- I'd like my own."

I never denied a cup of coffee. Even when I didn't know the marvels of coffee non mass produced for the social senior citizens that filled up our church every Sunday, before Starbucks and Coffee Beanery, Valencia syrup and my milk foamer, I was still sneaking sips from my parents' cups, drinking it at my grandparents house from tiny pretty teacups the next morning after Grandma/Helen sleepovers, and drinking it iced out of a thermos for lunch when my mother was away on buisness and my dad was packing lunch. (*)

Coffee fills me up. So, perhaps that is why as a child, I didn't eat.

My mother wouldn't understand, "Food is great." She'd say leaning over my uneatten dinners. I drank up my milk. I'd stare at the thoughtfully prepared shrimp creole or spinach ravioli or lemon chicken, all favored meals, "I'm NOT hungry."

"It's so good Hel, just eat this much." She'd cut up two small bite size pieces.

"NOooooo, I'm full"

"You've only eaten broccoli and a bite of chicken."

I'd sit there crying for an hour after everyone left the table. My mom would be cleaning up from dinner. My dad standing over the TV, remote in hand. My brother in his room. I'd be sitting in my kitchen watching the TV. Watching the stock channel, face in hands. Neil Cavuto, I knew him well. I'd daydream to make the time pass faster.. I'd think.. maybe if I paid attention to my dad when he'd talk about stocks while I sat over luke warm food I could be that blonde girl sitting next to Neil Cavuto in 15 years. 'Maybe I don't need to even pay attention,' I'd think, 'they have teleprompters for sure.' I'd watch the ticker, I'd look down at my food and gag, I'd think, 'she can't keep me here forever.' I'd look out the window and count the boats that passed by. My brother would walk into the kitchen and I'd shove a piece of chicken in his mouth, behind my mom's back. Time would pass, I would have no desire to lift my fork.

"Food is so great, Helen. I can't believe a child of mine does not like food!"

She'd force me to eat the two bite size pieces, me gagging all the way, and then she'd set me free.


At lunch the kids at school had sandwiches. Full sandwiches with bologna and cheese, with tuna, with peanut butter and jelly. Then they'd have money to get a snack, or they'd bring a granola bar or they'd have a fruit roll up.

Sometimes I brought taboulli, a middle eastern salad dish, about a half a cup. Sometimes my mom would give me 1 slice of pumpernicle bread with a little tupperware filled with hummus.

But sometimes, SOMETIMES I'd open up my paper bag and there would be a half a sandwich with peanut butter and I'd get exasperated when I opened it, 'Why did she give me ALL this? What a waste this will be!' A half a sandwich was in no way getting finished by this girl. WAY too much.

And Then. I don't know when it happened. I cannot pinpoint the moment or the year or the impetus. But it hasn't been all that long.

When I was walking in from a Starbucks run this morning, the doorman stopped me. A doorman in this incredibly large building that I work in knows what to talk to me about, he said "You know you'd be proud of me."

"Oh yeah? What'd you do?" I had an idea of what he had done.

"I made sugar cookies with ganache! My girlfriend LOVED them."


The other day at a party I was standing next to Ex-IB, when he suddenly turned to me, and gestured to the girl he was talking to, "This girl makes a fine goat cheese salad." I lit up and started blabbering to her about 'The Barefoot Contessa.'

"That's what I do," he said the next day, "If I want to find something in common with you and someone you don't know, I think to myself, 'what can I bring up regarding food to make Helen involved in the conversation.'"


I often get simple emails from my friends that say things like this and nothing else:

"Exciting news: This morning I put a teaspoon of cinnamon in my coffee maker with the grounds...so good!"

OR

"There's going to be a Pomegranate Weekend in Brooklyn!"

My desk is covered with Gourmet my friends got me for Xmas last year, Bon Appetite comps my roomate brings home from work for me and old Cooking Lights that I gifted my mom with a few years ago.

I spend my free time reading food blogs and making potential dinner menus. I switch the TV to The Food Network at every possible moment. I've judged and dumped dates based on their restaurant choices and food orders. (ie. EX-IB's first meal with me: Dirty Kettle 1 Martini, Steak Tartar, Pan seared Lemon Sole with chorizo and a recomendation of a pear and endive salad, Guy Before Him whose phone calls I ignored afterwards: Sam Adams, Nachos and a Chicken Fajita at a non Mexican place.) I pick my doctors office in accordance to new lunch places I'd like to try. Today I had a disappointing falafel at lunch and it's put me in a rut.

I'm Helen Green and I guess I am my mother's daughter.

I'm Helen Green and I love food.

*FYI: I am 5'1