Baked Potato

Posted on February 20, 2006 in Eating Stigma

Last night, over my belated birthday dinner at Hof’s Hut, my wife and I discussed atypical psychotics. The waitress came in and out, delivering food, drink, and paper towel. She paid an unusual amount of attention to me, telling me how to wipe spots off my shirt using a prepared towelette for example.

After I cleared my plate of the bits of seafood, I turned my attention to the baked potato. The chef had cut it for me, right down the side, and scooped out a bit of the meat — to use on another plate as mashed potatos. As I first hunted for the slit and then lathered butter on the inside, she came by and asked “Are you handling that potato OK?”

Lynn and I blinked at each other. Did something indicate that I was incapable of “handling” a potato? Was it liable to jump off my plate?

“I guess we shouldn’t have mentioned the atypical antipsychotics,” I said. “We worried her.”