I remember my dad saying "Don't touch my plate unless you want a fork in your hand." I get that. Look, I'm no Michelle Obama. You go on ahead and eat whatever you want. You want to drink melted lard with a Silly Straw, fine by me. Just don't ask me for a sip of my lard.
This is one of my many mild and non-alarming neuroses. I like food. I LOVE food. I celebrate food. Also, I ration food for maximum enjoyment. Say, for example, I have a 12 pack of Coca-Cola, the nectar of the gods. I will allow myself 1 Coke a day, to have as many Coke days as possible. If I have some other good and holy thing like beef jerky I take small portions and eat it very slowly, drawing the flavor of Texas into my very soul. Often, someone will come along and grab slice of jerky and eat it all willy-nilly. No respect. Or leave a half-drunk Coke around, ruined. This pains me.
Or, at a restaurant, just as my entree arrives, and the long wait is over, and I am back with my precious tamale or General Tso's, somebody decides maybe they are hungry, after all, and snags a choice piece. I am moved. I am disturbed. I cry out.
See, some people are sharers. And while I would never hesitate to share my futon with you (well, maybe not anybody), I would just prefer to share food with you that has been previously designated as a shared food, and is, you know, on a separate plate and such. If you are a sharer, this is bad form to you. You feel I am lacking some essential character quality, and it bothers you. You would never hesitate to give someone a swig of your Coke ration, or a monstrous bite of your cheeseburger. I don't get you.
And that is why I hid a box of Oreos from my husband for 5 days before he cleaned my kitchen and found them.