One thing we never had in my family was leftovers. I come from a long line of small people with large appetites. We enter the world ravenous and have the metabolism of hummingbirds. While other kids played outside, we’d be in Grandma’s root cellar sampling jars packed with peach, raspberry and chokecherry jam, and her pickles: dill, bread and butter and watermelon. We’d see who could eat her pickled hot banana peppers without wincing.

My grandfather had a ravenous appetite fueled by deprivation. As a child he was often hungry. I guess you never get the hang of delayed gratification if you never experience gratification. When he met my grandmother he was in the hospital in Mt. Lake, Minnesota, where she was a nurse. She could tell that he had been malnourished. They married in 1934 during the Depression, and my grandmother, who had studied nutrition in nurses training at the Mayo Clinic, started a garden and began feeding her short, thin husband. And he grew several inches in height. “Unheard of,” she said.

Fear of hunger never left him. For nearly 91 years he gorged himself, plucking cherries and apples from the garden in between the three big meals my grandmother prepared. On one childhood visit, Grandma took a cherry pie out of the oven and instructed me to let it cool before cutting it. As soon as she left, Grandpa demanded a piece. “But, Grandma said we have to wait for it to cool,” I kept saying. He was relentless. As he cut into it the center collapsed; steam rising, he spooned it into a bowl and lapped it up; hot cherry juice running down his chin. When Grandma returned she looked at the pie, looked at him and said nothing. She understood him. She loved him. She fed him for 64 years.

On a trip back to Minnesota to visit these grandparents, my middle brother, Stuart, and I stopped at the Kaiserhoff in New Ulm, Minnesota, famed for its German cooking. He ordered the ribs with sauerkraut. A mound of meat arrived covered in sauce and steaming sauerkraut. I left for a short trip to the ladies’ room, and when I returned his plate was empty. “So you changed your mind about the ribs?” I asked, thinking the waitress must have taken them away. “No, I ate them,” he said. I sat there stunned. Hyenas don’t even eat that fast.

Years ago at a family reunion, I watched my Uncle Peter put away four desserts, then unbuckle his belt and ease his hand under his waistband to relieve the pressure. And he’s as thin as a whippet. I was sitting next to my youngest brother, Christopher, and I made the mistake of resting my fork for a minute. Eyeing my plate, he said, “Gonna finish that?”

Even our measure of time relates to food. Asked how long some home repair project took, my uncle said, “About as long as it takes to eat a pie.” All the men nodded in agreement – a quick home repair project by everyone’s estimate.

As a kid I liked to experiment in the kitchen, and my brothers were willing taste testers. Hold anything up to their mouths, and they opened up like baby robins. Days later they might ask, “Say, what was that?” They’d eat first and ask questions later. Appetite trumps curiosity. When they would bug me I thought how easy it would be to poison my tormentors. And it’s not just the men in the family.

As newlyweds, the first time my husband saw me sick he was concerned. Not at my illness, but at seeing me devour scrambled eggs, two pieces of toast with peanut butter, a bowl of oatmeal, a cup of coffee and two glasses of orange juice in between the wheezes and coughs of bronchitis. This went on for a few days until he called in reinforcements. His daughter brought chicken soup, a friend brought a whole pan of lasagna, another friend brought banana bread. And so my husband survived the worst of my illness. Nothing dulls the family appetite.

When I worked at a desk job in corporate America, my colleagues’ daily entertainment was to stop by to ask, “So what are you eating now?” The women had no sympathy for my struggle to maintain 110 pounds. When I’d complain during a long meeting that I was weak and needed food, they’d say, “We hate you.” Even at desk jobs, we eat like field hands.

Some families talk about the weather, or art, or Aunt Agnes’ beard; we talk about food. We finish breakfast and start talking about lunch. After lunch, it’s “what are we having for supper?” After supper, we wonder what to make for breakfast. We don’t always remember birthdays or anniversaries, but we remember everything we ever ate and which restaurant has the best steak or the crispiest hash browns.

Don’t get me wrong. We’re considerate people, when our stomachs are full. But when our blood sugar drops, things get nasty. And when we’re all hungry at the same time, harsh words are spoken. Things usually calm down after a few bites.

My husband has seen the family appetite for many years now, and he offered this admonition: “When the famine comes your family will be the first to go.” Could be he’s right, but I can’t think about that right now. What are we having for lunch?