Confessions of a Recovering Picky Eater
It may come as a surprise to anyone who read my Food is Love post about being ravenously hungry in my formative years, (inhaling almost anything I could squeeze into my sausage-link pincher grip, (insert my 600lb baby life blog link)) that I am a recovering picky eater. My mom remembers quite vividly the moment I went from a toddler garbage disposal to a fearful eater in an instant.
When I was five, my parents took my sister and me to Hawaii for a family vacation with my grandparents. My dad, being an avid surfer and SCUBA divemaster, spent most of his time underwater and surfing, and loved taking my sister and me down to the north shore to watch the waves roll in. He’d tell us stories about famous surfers and his fondness for all things ocean. At this point in my life, my dad was bringing home fresh caught abalone for dinner when it was in season (it was still legal to catch in the '80s). While my mom would pan fry up his catch of the day in a delicious pool of browned butter, he would save the shells and preserve the beautiful iridescent interior with resin so my sister and I could use them as jewelry bowls for our rooms.
I loved everything about the ocean because my dad's passionfor the sea was palatable. I was so enamored that my dad could dive to the bottom of the sea and catch beautiful and delicious delicacies like abalone for our family to enjoy. That was, until the last day of our trip.
My dad took my sister and me down to the ocean, as heusually would do, to watch the surfers and see the tides change. Over by the rocks, there was a fisherman just off his boat from the morning’s trip. He was gutting and cleaning his catch of what looked to be a large Mahi Mahi. I locked my eyes on the fisherman and watched as the fish head and body were dismembered, and a pool of blood was splattering off the back of the boat's bow. I watched as each bloody drip stained the crystal-blue sea water, leaving a murky, brown abyss. To my innocent mind, I hadn’t yet made the connection that the fish I was happily eating on my dinner plate was actually a living, breathing fish that once swam in the sea. When I could finally unlock my eyes from the blood bath in front of me, I started to cry and ran inside immediately to find my mom.
From that day on, my parents say I never wanted to eat seafood again. They sort of joke with me that I was lucky it wasn't a slaughter house or a chicken farm they took me to because I may have become the first vegetarian in my kindergarten class (although I’ve now read everything from The Jungle to Skinny Bitch on the topic of meats, but that’s another story).
My picky eating snowballed from that day. I stopped eatingraw onions, (or even cooked onions forthe matter) I wouldn’t touch certain cheeses, shellfish, gamey meats and allsorts of other foods I previously inhaled. For the next 10 years, I was allowed to be picky and didn't see anyreason to change the trajectory of my culinary palate.
Until I met Brett.
Brett was my first "real boyfriend." He was much taller than me at 6’ 3’’ (I'm 5'10'' so that was a major plus!) and had a zooped-uptruck, complete with a skull stick shift that my 15-year-old brain thought was uber-cool. After we had been dating for about 4 months,he invited me to have dinner at his house with his parents. I was equally excited and terrified at the same time; I hadn’t been introduced as someone’s girlfriend before, and immediately wanted them to like me as much as I liked their son.
When Brett came to pick me up, I was smart enough to know I needed to: bring a hostess gift, (thanks Mom, for the social capital) keep the PDA to a minimum, and be cordial at mealtime. Brett’s parents and I were getting along swimmingly, talking about my family background and my love for volleyball. I was knocking it out of the park! I thought to myself, “I bet they are hoping Brett and I get married someday…. “
Then dinner arrived.
Brett's mom served the first course of moules marinières, or mussels in a white wine broth, with a hunk of crusty baguette. Mussels? Really? I thought these were supposed to be what I saw clustered together at the bottom of the Dana Point pier; certainly not something that would show up as edible food for dinner. Suddenly, I lost track of the dinner conversation and several swirling thoughts became entangled in my mind:
What part of this can I eat? I figured that the black shells were inedible (unless you’re Daryl Hannah in Splash). And why does the yellowish “meat” inside look like a giant booger I snotted out after my last sinus infection
How do I eat this? Currently, at the table, there were no utensils… Hmm, is this some sort of cruel test?
Where is their dog? And how can I get this bowl down low enough without Brett’s parents catching me?
How much do I really like Brett? Are 4 months with this bozo really worth choking down phlegm nuggets for?
After gobbling up all my bread, (and briefly getting back ontrack with the conversation) I peered down into my bowl of black bivalve mollusksand decided I would dive in. I had watched Brett’s dad use one of his blackshells as a pincher to extract the meat inside from another muscle, and dipinto the wine broth. Looked simple enough!
When I pinched at my first bite of muscle, I couldn’t help but get visions of Ursula from The Little Mermaid devilishly slurping plump little seaworms (OMG, they had little faces in the movie!) with her fat lips. Looking back, I don’t think I stood a chance to make it thru the meal, but I made a valiant attempt to show Brett and his parents how much I liked their son.
The squishy texture was too much for my immature palate, and I had to immediately excuse myself for the bathroom. When I returned, the muscles were gone (Thank God!), and replaced by what looked to me like a fancy steak lollipop. I thought, "YES! I love steak! I love lollipops!" and was much relieved that it looked like the meal had taken a turn to the familiar. That was until Brett's mom mentioned they were lamb chops. Since I had never tried lamb before, my initial reaction of "Wow this looks great!" was now met with an unjust doseof preconceived skepticism.
I fumbled my way thru the rest of the meal and politely said goodnight to Brett's parents. I remember on the drive home thinking, “Wow…I hope I never have to experience a meal like that again!”
But that was wishful thinking. Life would hit me with many more experiences just like I had with Brett’s parents. What I subsequently came to understand was that I needed to develop my Culinary Capital so that food was not a limiting factor in my social, business, and familial situations.
The moules marinières planted a seed in me that wasn’t quite ready to sprout. I was subconsciously made aware of how little Culinary Capital I had at the age of 15, but it wasn’t till I was in my mid 20’s insert link to sugar fish article till it hit me in the face and I finally decided I wanted to make the first of many changes to my eating habits.
To be continued....