I am a picky eater. Many people are appalled by the finicky
eater, but there are a surprising number of people who find the choosiest of us
quite fascinating. I have noticed both camps feel it is their mission, their
duty, their great quest to get to the bottom of what I like and what I don’t. I
have learned as a picky eater that the best thing to do is to speak up. But
sometimes that’s just not proper...
England 1998-The English countryside- warm beer and shepherd’s
pie; fish and chips; deviled lamb- kidneys on toast, you get the picture. If
you are licking your lips right now, you are not reading this with the proper
amount of empathy. I certainly didn’t eat any of it. I can’t remember much of
what I did eat; I think dry cereal and the occasional Cadbury bar. I know I
enjoyed tea and biscuits every day around 4:00 pm. You might say I lived solely
for my buttery, jam-filled biscuits and scones, which is true. On day five of
our trip we went to London. I was very excited to see Buckingham Palace and
ride a Double Decker bus, but I was most excited to be in a bustling metropolis
with some international food choices such as pizza or elbow macaroni with
butter. Mike and I found a cool cafeteria with a buffet (usually not a buffet
girl, but this seemed like a great solution). We got in there only to find the
same fare we had seen all week. Finally, out of the corner of my eye I spotted
chicken nuggets. Not long breaded breast strips, but little round nuggets, something
I ordinarily would pass right by. However, this was Day 5 of my unexpected
weight loss plan and those tiny nuggets may as well have been made of pure
gold. As Mike scurried around the buffet grabbing every food in sight, I made a
beeline for the lady in the stained apron scooping the nuggets.
“I’ll have the
chicken nuggets, please,” I said holding out my empty, brown, tray.
“Do
you have any children with you?”
I was confused.
“No, I am just here with my husband,
honeymoon, you know. Anyway, I’ll take those chicken nuggets now, please.”
“No,”
she replied tersely.
“No? I-I-I don’t understand.”
“The chicken nuggets are
only for children under age 12.”
I started sweating. Could I pass for twelve?
Could I borrow someone’s child? Could I leave, come back with sunglasses on and
point to some random baby in a buggy and claim her as my own? A thick piece of
glass and a brown-toothed woman in a hair net stood between my chicken nuggets
and me. I had to do something.
“I’ll pay double. I’ll pay what you’d charge an
adult.”
“No. They are for the children.” She turned to the next customer. I
started crying. Real tears. Saltwater rolled down my face. She showed not the
slightest flicker of emotion. I had to compose myself. I grabbed a yogurt
parfait (I don’t even like yogurt!) and moseyed over to the table where Mike was
hunched over enjoying his six huge helpings of food. All’s well that ends
well-later that afternoon we found a Burger King in Piccadilly Square. I
splurged on a double hamburger hold the mustard. It was divine.
Late Spring 2002-First, a little background. I love roast
beef, but it has to be just so. When I get roast beef from the deli, I like to
take a good look at it first. It can’t be too well done, and can’t be too rare,
but most importantly it needs to be high quality. The last thing I can stand is
when you get deli meat and it has a sort of metallic shine to it. It might look
good as a car color, but not as something you put in your body. And the texture
of that shiny stuff, well, it’s not good, my friends. Where was I? Yes, late spring of 2002. I was
pregnant with Max and feeling a tad of first trimester nausea, but nothing too
dramatic. Mike, Madison, Xaila (one of the foreign exchange students I
mentored) and I went to our favorite sub shop-Lee and Eddy’s- for lunch. Now
here’s the thing, I don’t know if Lee and Eddy’s is still in business and if
they are I mean them no disgrace. Usually we loved them. It just so happens
that on this day, unbeknownst to me, they had an iridescent batch of roast
beef. I ordered my usual sub of roast beef and pickles, no condiments (of
course). The guy behind the counter was
an employee we recognized by face if not by name. He had long hair (which was
always pulled back) and wore old school Metallica and Megadeth Tees. He was a
really nice guy. He was a walker, we saw him around town all the time. Anyway,
he prepared my sub and handed it to me. I was pregnant and starving and well, I
was on a mission to take down that sub in record time. I took my first bite and
noticed the texture was all wrong. I opened the roll and sure enough, shiny
roast beef. I didn’t know what to do. I was so desperately hungry and didn’t
want to hurt the friendly employee’s feelings, so I ate it like a champ. It was
horrible. I could hardly keep it down. I couldn’t even think about it after I
ate it. I tried to complain on the car ride home, but the mere thought of that
sub brought on the gag reflex. It gets worse, too. For probably a year after
that, whenever I’d see the Lee and Eddy’s guy walking around town, I’d start to
involuntarily gag. The poor man made me want to puke anytime I saw him!
Christmas a few years ago (not sure maybe 2007?)-My
father-in-law was making several dishes for a Christmas Eve event we would all
be attending. I was sitting on one of his kitchen chairs in my signature oxygen-deprived-daze
(I tend to regularly suffer a severe mix of fatigue, lack of personality and
all over confusion in my first 72 hours in Colorado). Last I knew Bruce was
making banana cream pie. I could see the pie shell from my angle and I could
see the vanilla pudding box on the counter. Because of all the hubbub happening
in the kitchen, I couldn’t see everything that was going on. Delighted with his
kitchen skills, Bruce came over to me with a heaping spoonful of pie filling.
Well, that’s what I thought it was, anyway. You actually don’t even need to be
a picky eater to empathize on this one. Just imagine that you think you are
getting a taste of banana cream pie, but instead your mouth is filled with
mayonnaise (public enemy number 1 for me) and eggs! My well meaning father in
law didn’t know that A. I hadn’t realized he had moved from pie, to deviled egg
filling and B. I despise mayo and don’t like eggs much at all. Apparently the
look on my face was concerning, priceless, hilarious, frightening, you name it,
depending on who you are and how much you enjoy laughing at my expense.
August 4 2008-My birthday. Max had the stomach flu. We had
to cancel dinner plans with my friend Susan. Our friendship was just a year old
and she didn’t realize some of my likes and dislikes. She made her famous
chicken pot pie with curry. Surprise, surprise, I’m not much of a chicken pot
pie girl. I had only had curry one other
time when my assistant Rajni force fed me a traditional Indian meal, but that’s
quite honestly, a blog unto itself. Susan was so sad for me that I had a sick
child to tend to on my birthday that she went ahead and brought me some flowers
and the chicken pot pie. Even though she didn’t stay, I felt obligated to give
the pie a try. It was just chicken and veggies,
I reasoned. Who knows, maybe I would even like the curry. Well, it doesn’t
even matter what I thought of the curry. The stomach flu overtook me that night
as well. I won’t go into gory details, but I spent a long time hanging my head
over the toilet bowl. A few months later Susan had some of the girls over for
dinner. She made a curry chicken pot pie,
which all the ladies loved. Well almost all the ladies. I was beside myself. I
didn’t want to hurt her feelings or seem ungrateful. And blast her; she didn’t
have a dog-so I did what I had to do. I
don’t know if she noticed I wasn’t loving it, but I do know she’s cooked me
many a delicious dinner since, and it was never the chicken pot pie.
December 2010-In Colorado again, but this time at Mike’s mom’s
house. My mother-in-law was bending over backwards to please my picky palate,
which I really appreciated. At the same time, I also felt an immense sense of
guilt. She shouldn’t have to do that. Linda knows that I don’t like tuna fish.
The unfortunate piece is she thought the part I disliked was only the tuna, and
didn’t realize the worst part was-here we go again-the mayo! It was our first
evening there and my mother-in-law made a casserole. It was exactly the same as
her famous tuna casserole, but she proudly made a substitution in my honor. “Dinner’s at six,” she sang out, “Hot Chicken
Casserole.” Wonh-wah. It had a lot of
mayo, a lot of hot mayo. A lot of mayo. And, my mother-in-law didn’t have a dog
either. Sigh.
There you have it-another glimpse into what makes me tick
(or makes me sick). Still, I don’t want to put any of you off. You can have me
over for dinner any time. Let’s keep it simple though, Cadbury bars and elbow
macaroni for everyone!
