I don’t eat salad.
I don’t eat lettuce, or tomato, or onions, or dressing. I do eat cheese and croutons though! When I was a kid my mom would pay for my access to the salad bar at Mazzio’s, our local pizzeria. $.10 X age in years was the cost for a child’s salad, which seems very fair. Plus if you brought your plastic cup back in from a previous visit you got a free drink, on Sundays. (I miss the eighties.) My salad plate would be arranged with cottage cheese, Chinese noodles, cheddar cheese and chocolate pudding. Maybe a few spare crackers and croutons.
Today my salad would cost $3.40 by the same payment structure and my plate would look quite similar to when it cost $.70.
Foods I really like: potatoes, pasta, queso, (Tex-Mex cheese dip for the uninitiated), chicken, coffee and chocolate.
Are you judging me yet?
A few years ago I came across the name of a condition that I readily clung to as an explanation for my food preferences: Super-tasters. Here is a non-scientific explanation by me to save you the time reading a wikipedia article about it- Basically my taste buds work better than yours. I’m sorry. You probably thought your taste buds worked fine, and I just shed light on what must be a really uncomfortable deficiency you have. Sorry about that.
I’m the one embarrassed and uneasy at restaurants and dinner parties but you are really the one who should be feeling bad. I have a super-power. (sorry!)
Don’t call me “picky”. I used to be ok with that judgement, but now I have a three and a half-year old, so I understand the true meaning of that distinction. Jonah eats “better” than I do, but he also does things like picks the grains out of bread, the oregano out of spaghetti sauce, and denounces entire grilled cheeses for being “too crunchy!”.
On second thought, maybe I am picky, and you should be too. Maybe we should all be a little more picky about what we will accept, and not just at the dinner table.
I’m picky about my relationships, how I spend my time, the kind of treatment I will accept, music, my shoes, my jeans, and my hair. (And I know to bring a sweater to the movie theater.)
After all, I’m in my thirties, why would I compromise my values? I’m a bona fide adult.
Even though you wouldn’t guess it by looking at my plate.
(Photo by Julia Soniat for okaydaydream)