An essay on my father's twisted mind
(Maybe not a very broad essay, but you get the deal. JUST READ :D)

There comes a time in life when a man reaches a certain age. This certain age I'm talking about is when his hair is starting to go from grey to white, his teeth starts to get a little weak and his back is starting to hurt more. I'm talking about the 50s. This is also one of those times when the man starts trying being younger than he actually is. This is often expressed through choise of music, trying to hang out with 'youngsters', flirting with younger women, and if it goes too far, you might find a motor bike in your garage one day.

My father has always been preserving the child within, and we have the same kind of childish (too childish for him anyway) humor. Therefore I didn't expect any crisis of this sort when he turned fifty some years ago. And it didn't come, not in the same way, at least. Instead of the bike, he got himself a giant collection of golf equipment (which isn't cheap, if you wondered) and he uses most of the summer time playing golf. Unless he's working on the house, which has been a fact for the last couple of years. And all this is fine. What is worrying me is the later changes in his behavior.

I mentioned that he is playing golf and working on the house, something that makes him a very active man for his age. I prefer sitting activities like writing and drawing. This is what I do when I have time. Which I never have. I actually do use my so-called spare-time on schoolwork, and I seriously don't have time for anything else. This makes dad look down on me.

There's another thing that makes him look down on me. I had to visit the doctor some time ago, and because of a genetic illness of mine, he recommended a cook book from a Greek/Norwegian cook called Fedon. Fedon is a cook who makes healthy food based on his Mediterranean cooking traditions. My dad immediately bought it, and I thought it was for me to read. Instead, he called it his, and he read in it every day. Every open hour. In the next couple of weeks, me and my mother had to stand long lectures about how a meal should be prepared and how it should be eaten. Before he read the book, he ate fat and salty food. Not much, but at least he could stand eating it. Now he slowly turned into something I'd like to call a food facist. He started looking down at me for putting chocolate in my milk sometimes, and shame on me if I ate or drank anything else than the darkest bread with more than one piece of cold cut.

As a contradiction to his ideas on his food believes, he hasn't seemed to take in any recipes. Therefore, if mum isn't home, my brother and I get either a warmed up frozen pizza, or pancakes. We have had pancakes when he's home alone with us since we were children, but what's strange is the change in his recipe; he almost bathes the pancakes in margarine while making them! I'm sure they are at least three times as fatty when we get them now than what they were back when we were smaller.

Another thing about when we were small is that we were taught in an atheist fashion. Not a word was spoken about any god, although we learned about them. It was always taught in third person (They believe that...). My parents has never shown any religious or anything. Today my father joined the church. He said it was because he wasn't so sure that he supported women's right for free abortion anymore. When I gave him a sceptical and an honestly (negatively) surprised look, he added that he also thought much of how they speak for people without a voice. That can't be all. It just can't be all. If you want to support people without a voice, you support Amnesty or something. And about the free abortion; I don't understand how he, who has had my role model in reflected mind, can mean that girls and women who doesn't want a child has to get it anyway.

(NO ENDING BECAUSE I'M SICK OF WRITING ESSAY-STYLE 8D GO LAZINESS!)

If you do, I'll poke you down on ground level. NO BECOME FOOD FASCIST!!