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No witnesses were present the other two times that food came between us. I remember two separate scenes with a common theme -- the fear of having enough food for guests. The first scene involved hamburgers. I was in charge that night, and Rosanne's friend Byron was coming to dinner. I shopped on my way home, and had fashioned six patties after adding bread crumbs, salsa, chopped garlic and chopped onions to a pound-and-a-half of chopped meat. Somewhere along the line, before the burgers were grilled, Rosanne decided it wasn't going to be enough. I'm the one who blew up this time, because it wasn't that any of us would want more than two of the hamburgers. Rosanne's beef was that there wouldn't be at least one burger left over so that nobody would have to have the last one. It would seem like we were out of food when everyone was full, instead of giving the appearance that there was plenty more. Rosanne is from a family of seven. There were only three around my dinner table for the last six years I lived with my parents -- four, before my brother left for college when I was ten. There was never a hint of hunger in either home, but I suspect Rosanne and her five sisters watched the plates very carefully as they made their way around the table, and knew what was expected and what was acceptable. One pork chop. One potato. If it seemed there might be anything extra, her dad would make a subtle remark to let everyone knew he expected to have seconds. Growing up, she probably vowed to supply the hospitality she had seen at other tables when she visited friends from smaller families, or those who could afford to supply a groaning board. Just enough was not enough. Too much was just enough. To me, it seemed like posturing. Why not put on the plate what a person could reasonably be assumed to eat, and a little more? Why go in for the theatrics of too much, when enough would do? I was horrified at the illogic of it. And it didn't even seem hospitable. Why force your guests to turn down food, when you could supply the right amount of the right stuff? Was it before or after that -- I can't remember -- that Rosanne fumed about whether my parents would have enough whipped cream on their desserts? Added to the issue of enough was the idea that whipped cream was a luxury and we, as hosts, should be parsimonious with it. I can't count the number of times Rosanne has taken the smaller, or less desirable portion of something so that I, or certainly any guest, could have a bigger or shapelier plateful. How dare I take a full portion of whipped cream, leaving less in the bowl for my parents, in case they wanted more. We got through that one, as we got through the others. And I'm sure my parents, even in our tiny studio apartment, didn't catch on that there was a ferocious fight going on in the kitchen over the topping to their dessert. Somehow, through our ten years together, Rosanne and I have sanded the edges off those food fights, learning to give in, or recognizing the other person's weaknesses and sore spots. If food has triggered the biggest fights, it is also our love made tangible on a daily basis. And since Marie was born on Christmas Day five years ago, our biggest fights have been about her care and feeding. More often than not, we're on the same side of the food fights now. MARIE! Don't throw those noodles! And PLEASE wait a few minutes before your next dessert! And can't you eat from your own plate, instead of mom and dad's?