“I’M FROM HEARTY GERMAN PEOple,” my morbidly obese mother used to say. “If the mule was sick, my ancestors would strap the yoke to their own backs to plow the field.”
At first, I accepted my mother’s heritage as the reason for her size. But as I grew older, I noticed Halloween and Easter candy disappeared overnight, Christmas cookies meant for gifts were never given, and special desserts baked for company never made it to the table.
Cakes, pies, ice cream—anything sweet—was her heroin. I’d find a sea of candy bar wrappers under the driver’s seat in her
