This evening I rediscovered one of my favorite childhood books tucked away on my shelf, hidden between Maxie by Mildred Kantrowitz and The Marvelous Catch of Old Hannibal by Berthe Amoss. It's a slim volume, no writing on the spine - easy to overlook on my sporadic trips across the kiddie book shelf with dust rag in hand. The book is called Plump Pig by Helen and Alf Evers (circa 1956) and it goes something like this ...

Although the Plump Pig was the youngest pig on the farm, he was the plumpest. And he didn't like being plump. No one else on the farm was plump. The farmer wasn't plump. His wife wasn't, either. Neither was the dog - nor the cat. The Plump Pig tried to get thin by not eating when the other pigs ate. He tried running around and around the pig yard. But he only grew plumper and sadder. One day some visitors came to the farm. There was a plump woman and a plump man. A plump girl and a plump boy. A plump dog and a plump cat. And when they saw the Plump Pig, they shouted together: "Isn't that the very plumpest pig you ever saw? We just love him." So they bought the Plump Pig from the farmer and they took him home in their car. They built a lovely house for the Plump Pig right in the middle of their beautiful flower garden. They admired the Plump Pig and they petted him. They gave him wonderful meals with fancy desserts. They simply loved the Plump Pig because - although the woman was plump and the man was plump - although the girl was plump and the boy was plump - although the dog was plump and the cat was plump - the Plump Pig was the plumpest of them all. And he was happy - the happiest of them all!

And I wonder why I have food issues.