Sometimes I extend my hand for a sarcastic introductory handshake when my wife asks silly things that she should absolutely know about me by now, or over a decade ago.

I loooove food. And I also love not wasting money. It’s a powerful combination I find truly difficult to resist. In our house we don’t throw food away, we ask Daddy first. I’ve been called “the garbage disposal” and even “the goat.”

These nicknames don’t bother me, because they produce a wonderful side effect I like to call: more food for me.

It’s not that I’m cheap, really. I like to think of it more like I’m allergic to being broke. I work a lot, as in A-LOT a lot. I enjoy it actually. However, like everyone, I enjoy it most when I don’t necessarily HAVE to, or else that whole impeding financial devastation thingy.

I think it was years and years ago, when I first starting paying for my own food, that I made a hobby of calculating the approximate value of the uneaten food on the table, while I was calculating the tip.

Don’t get the wrong idea, thinking I’m a math whiz or something. Math is usually the mental equivalent of using chopsticks to fold a fitted sheet for me, but these restaurant number-crunching moments are somehow like the super strength one gets lifting a car off someone.

Now that I’m older, when my love of food and not-being-broke are faced with nearly a plateful of the fact that my son doesn’t have an allergic reaction to wasting food, it’s just more than I can take. Okay. So maybe that makes me cheap.

“No, Mr. Waiterman, he’s not ‘done with that.'” (Not until I’M done with that.)

“There’s still a little bit there. Slide it over, kiddo.”

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