BODY WATCH : A Family Creed That May Be All Washed Up

Godliness was never a big priority in my family. At least not the kind of visible godliness that meant you dressed up and piled into the family car every Sunday morning.

But we certainly had our family religion. In my childhood home, cleanliness was not next to godliness. It reigned supreme. There was a sense of peace, of being saved somehow, if the shower was wiped down, if the cutting boards were scrubbed, if the table was set by freshly washed hands.

It certainly didn’t start with my parents--this was a religion that was passed down through the generations like a family Bible. But for all of us, it’s caused pain as well as comfort.

My sweet, easygoing grandmother once declined to join a cooking group at her nursing home. The other residents enjoyed making their own creations in the large kitchen and then sharing their lasagna, salad or chocolate chip cookies during lunch. We finally asked Grandma why she wouldn’t attend the lunches.

“Because they don’t wash their hands and then they put their hands in the food,” she said, shuddering at the thought. “I just can’t stand to think about all those fingers in the food!”

When I heard that, I realized why I was always repulsed at dinner parties when the hostess went straight from using the bathroom to tossing the salad, without hitting the soap and water. I was witnessing the breaking of my family’s No. 1 Commandment, yet there was no socially correct way to suggest salvation.

“Care to read this little tract on how you can save your immortal soul with a little Irish Spring?” seemed to be a bit of a conversation stopper.

I’ve often wished my cleanliness radar wasn’t quite so finely tuned. A friend in college made legendary guacamole, which was always requested at parties. But one night, she’d played huggy-kissy face with her golden retriever before plopping her hands into the bowl of ripe avocados and mixing in the tomato and garlic by hand.

That night, I stuck to salsa. But as I smelled the heavenly aroma of garlic and avocado and watched my friends devour the guacamole, indifferent to the role the dog had played in preparing the evening’s refreshments, I was envious. I wanted to eat that guacamole. But I didn’t.

Even famous chefs haven’t escaped my zeal. I used to fantasize about dining at a famous Beverly Hills restaurant. Then I saw the restaurant’s owner/chef being interviewed for “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” and there was my culinary idol, tasting the sauce from a spoon. Stirring the pot with the same spoon. Tasting again. Stirring again. Robin Leach didn’t bat an eyelash.

Now, I’m at a crossroads. My husband and I are planning to start a family. I want so much to pass on to my children my husband’s sense of humor, my love of writing, his gift for understanding math, my recipe for green chili stew.

But I’m torn when it comes to passing on the family religion. It’s a gift that can be used for good or evil; a gift that can encourage good health but can also make the world’s most sociable grandmother miss out on a fun afternoon.

So I’m searching for a middle ground.

I’ll teach my daughter how to hover above a public toilet seat (and flush with her foot). I’ll encourage my son not to come home from soccer practice and immediately plunge his finger into the peanut butter jar. But I want my children to know, too, that life will go on even if it gets a little messy. That dog kisses never killed anyone. And that sometimes it’s best to stop and do more than just smell the guacamole.