The stainless steel monstrosity took up half the kitchen. It lorded over everything with its red scanner bar, making laser sweeps up and down as I approached. My younger brother pushed me out of the way.

 

"Belgian Waffles, syrup, extra whipped cream, chocolate sauce, bacon, and that spicy potato hash you made last time, FAM baby!" He rubbed his belly and said, "Isn't she amazing, Bhavi? I wish we had this years ago."

 

<Radhesh, 17, body fat 6%, athlete, beast mode>

 

"You know it," said Radhesh. Moments later, after much wheezing and whirring, the device opened a hatch and slid a tray of food out. The smell made my stomach grumble. I tried grabbing some bacon and got a slap on the hand.

 

"I'm building muscle. Get your own bacon," he said.

 

I'd heard of these FAMISH (Food and Medicine Integrated Supply Handler) machines from TikTok. They could be programmed to identify food allergies and manage medical dietary needs. While many lauded its benefits, some saw it as a medical overreach. I had voiced my concerns to my folks about intrusive technology, but this unit was installed while I was away at college.

 

"Eggs Benedict," I said.

 

<Bhavi, 19, BMI 32.1, obese, calorie reduction mode>

 

I looked down, embarrassed by FAM's pronouncement. I heard whirring, and out popped a microwaved frozen dinner. 'DietTribe's Savory Breakfast Burrito' was written along the side.

 

"I'm not trying to reduce, you stupid machine. Egggsss Beneeedict," I said slowly as if speaking to a child. Another DietTribe meal popped out, still frozen, and pushed the previous meal onto the floor with a disgusting squish. My mother must have set it to this mode to make me lose weight.

 

Before I could try again, my sister walked in.

 

She wore Kardashian couture, stilettos, and perfect makeup. I looked down at my college hoodie and sighed.

 

"FAM, darling! Sustenance," she said.

 

<Sureka, 21, BMI 20, social-influence mode>

 

I swear I heard a little fanfare as out popped a mimosa and a tray of mini quiches.

 

I ran upstairs to change into something appropriate for FAM and settled on athleisure wear over high fashion. Looking in the mirror, I rejoiced in my body’s sexy curves and felt ready to face that imposing machine.

 

When I entered the kitchen, its strip of light appeared to narrow as my own eyes did. Game on!

 

"FAM, old friend, Eggs Benedict." I stood and let the scanner pulse over me from head to toe.

 

<Bhavi, 19, BMI 32.1, obese, calorie reduction mode>

 

I left before another DietTribe meal slid out of that maniac machine. I went online to see if I could work the system in my favor before I died from starvation. That's when I saw it: our version of FAM used our medical data directly from our physician to determine appropriate meal plans.

 

I reentered the kitchen and stood before my oppressor.

 

"FAM, ice cream sundae, please."

 

<Bhavi, 19, prediabetes, carb limit, calorie reduction mode>

 

"Ahhhhh!" FAM turned a blind sensor to my scream. I accepted my 'DietTribe Sugar-Free Fudgsicle' and realized I had to do something.

 

* * *

 

At lunch, I cornered my brother, who was enjoying a rotisserie chicken.

 

"Hey, buddy, what say you ask FAM to make me some fried chicken?" I put one hand on his shoulder while sliding the other to grab a drumstick. His lightning-fast reflexes batted it out of my hand.

 

"Bhavi! Seriously, dude, you don't mess with science. I won't get fed later if I try to take more now. I am a lean, mean, calorie-eating machine. I need my food."

 

"Well, that mean machine won't give me any food. I'm starving," I said, eyeing Radhesh's side of mashed potatoes with gravy. My stomach growled, punctuating my remark.

 

I calculated the cost of eating out every day before returning to my college's meal plan. I knew my parents had an idealized version of me in their heads that didn't fit my love for my body. I could deal with my folks, but I wasn't about to let a machine fat-shame me. I also wouldn't waste my hard-earned cash on takeout when we had a FAM in the house.

 

I needed another approach. I booked a televisit with my primary care doctor that afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Dinner time had our whole family lined up in front of FAM. When I walked up to the machine, everyone was already bickering at the table. Their plates piled high with delicious choices made by FAM.

 

"Wait till you see the lameness that Bhavi gets," Radhesh alerted my family, who all turned to stare at me.

 

"FAM, fried chicken, mashed potatoes with gravy, and a biscuit dripping with honey, please," I bowed slightly before the metal monstrosity, hiding my grin.

 

<Bhavi, 19, TTC, sustenance mode>

 

Two clicks, a hiss, and a whir later, out came a sizzling tray of deliciousness. I grabbed it with a cheeky smile and waltzed to the dinner table with my feast.

 

My parents looked annoyed, and Radhesh was in shock. "But how? What the heck is TTC?" he asked.

 

"Trying To Conceive. FAM and the medical complex would be horrified if they were starving someone who could be pregnant," I said before tearing into my fried chicken.

 

"Who's the lucky guy?" asked Sureka, looking up from her phone. Pictures of her sushi were already on her Insta so she had time to be interested in someone else.

 

"Yes, who?" asked my mother, her eyes roving my body sharply. I'm sure she worried I'd never marry. I dismissed her gaze, knowing she would never understand my beauty. Thankfully, my doctor was not as nosy as my family. I could be TTC till menopause and keep my luscious body the way it was.

 

"Who the lucky guy is… is between me, my physician, and my FAM," I said, flicking my prenatal vitamin at Radhesh and filling my mouth with that sticky, mouth-watering biscuit.