For as long as I can remember I’ve always been quite a most hearty eater. My niece, Bridget, and nephews, Michael and Sam, have frequently passed remarks about how it’s so difficult for anyone to find out about my tastes in food because I always eat anything that’s put in front of me. I can remember that when I was a kid in Jackson Heights I’d always considered strawberry my least favorite flavor of ice cream, and I’ve never been crazy about spaghetti or most kinds of seafood. As a youngster I’d never liked liver but a few years ago I ate some with onions, when Uncle Frankie made it. I quite enjoyed it. Lasagna has always been my favorite food, and home made apple pie my favorite pastry. I now attend a church where a very large number of the parishioners are from Hispanic countries and the Orient. It’s quite enjoyable for me to go to their parties and fund raisers because I can try all kinds of exceptionally funky new foods. I enjoy going to restaurants with distinctive menus because then I get a chance to try new things ranging from goat to buffalo. There is only one problem with my eating habits. I have quite an insatiable need to finish each and every single last morsel on my plate, no matter how difficult it is for me to handle it. I should suppose it is a kind of a neurotic quirk. People have often complained that it strikes them as more pathological than conscientious. Of course I have absolutely no patience whatsoever with the vegetarians’ insatiable need to run our lives. I defiantly reject absolutely everything they stand for. The very idea of animal rights is simply insane anyway.