Okay, I confess: My favorite sandwich as a  boy growing up in West Virginia in the 50s consisted of Velveeta cheese and grape jelly. On white bread. (Brief pause for the reader to throw up or turn the page.)

Another confession: My mom was a fine person, but a cook she was not. And my dad just didn’t care about food. So my siblings and I were thrilled when frozen TV dinners hit the stores. Yum! Edible food. We loved road trips, which featured stops at Howard Johnson’s to get hot dogs (loved those toasted rolls) and ice cream cones (28 flavors, make mine Frozen Pudding). Mostly, we loved eating anywhere that wasn’t home.

Fast forward 60 years: My wife Tina, a terrific cook, takes great care in picking out just the right head of lettuce or package of organic (natch) hamburger or whatever. No one bakes better apple pies. I’m no foodie, but I thoroughly enjoy eating out, especially with friends and family. I savor the Saturday morning Farmer’s Market, but mainly to catch the vibe, not to choose the chard. I’m not a picky eater, but don’t serve me kale chips, seaweed salad or tofu milkshakes. You read that right: tofu milkshakes. One year I tried a blueberry tofu milkshake at the Common Ground Fair, just to show how far I’ve come since my Velveeta days. Big mistake.

I love big family dinners around our long oval table in the summer. I like it when people heed the don’t-start-eating until-everyone-is-served-and-athanks of-some-sort-is-said way of meals around here. Sadly, not many members of the younger generations value these traditions these days. I also like it when no one leaves the table until everyone is finished, another lost practice it seems.

I’m glad that most people now watch their diet and buy local when possible. I’m not so glad about the picky dietary restrictions people announce, almost like a badge of honor. Within the past month alone, our guests have included several gluten-free people; a few vegetarians; two kids whose mother insists they’re both gluten-free and lactoseintolerant; and a young weightlifter whose daily regimen included five or six small meals a day. At one point I counted six kinds of milk in our refrigerator: whole milk, two percent, one percent, skim milk, almond milk and coconut milk.

What would my grandparents have said about this dietary maze? Or my food agnostic dad, for that matter? Tina once urged my dad to eat some fish from time to time. A few weeks later, he said to her, “Well, I’ve been eating fish.”

“Good!” says Tina. “What kind of fish, Paw?”

“Fish sticks,” he replied proudly.

Sometimes the food obsession gets a tad crazy. I liked the wit and warmth of Julia Child, but today’s celebrity TV chefs with their snooty airs and brandconscious web sites leave me cold. To me it’s ridiculous to make a reservation for the latest hot restaurant months in advance, just to gain bragging rights. And I’m embarrassed by restaurant patrons who make a career out of complaining about the food or the service. That said, I’ll forgive diners — myself included — who complain when the loud music in a place drowns out table talk. Good conversations should be part of the dining experience in my view.

Happily, I’ve evolved from my Velveeta and grape jelly days. I share Tina’s distaste with pre-packaged foods. I never eat grape jelly, I’m not sure Velveeta is even sold now, and we never buy white bread. That said, on most days I’m perfectly content with a grilled cheese sandwich. And I sure miss those Howard Johnson hotdogs.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes commentary or suggestions for future articles at [email protected].