craftygal stump - In Defense of the Picky Eater

You Want Me To Eat That?!

When I was little, my grandmother used to say, "you eat like a bird." I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant, but eventually I came to realize that my eating habits were not like everyone else’s. Mealtime was pretty much a big hassle, a conspiracy of adults trying to trick me into eating unsavory things under they guise of "it’s good for you." How could green beans possibly be good for me when they tasted so horrible? Was God some kind of sadist? (I didn’t know that word back then, but that’s what I was thinking!) I would stare down a portion of green beans for hours before being forced to choke them down cold--with ketchup to cover up the taste. I know other kids had their food aversions, but they all seemed to grow out of it. For me, the "picky eater" label was permanent.

Eventually my mom gave up the fight and let me eat what I wanted to. The only vegetables I approved of were corn (not creamed!), carrots (not cooked!), and potatoes. Needless to say, this made my vegetarian phase in high school particularly difficult. I was essentially a carbohydratatarian, sustaining myself on cereal, frozen waffles, and Pop-tarts. (Yep, breakfast was my favorite meal.) After about nine months of this regimen, however, I started having serious blackouts and dizzy spells, so the doctor said I’d best return to some semblance of carnivorous ways.

When I got to college, though, I thought I’d better make a deliberate effort to broaden my dietary horizons so as not to seem like a total freak. I know, I know--that’s a tall order, but seriously, it was a big deal when I let a friend talk me into trying Chinese food for the first time. (I pretty much stick with chicken.) Soon, I found myself trying Mediterranean food and ordering strange things with names like "hummos" and "souvlaki." Hurray for progress!

Then one weekend, my roommate’s parents invited us to come over for dinner, so for the next step in my personal nutritional expansion program, I resolved to be a good sport and try a little bit of everything and, if I could, clean my plate. When the time came, I was on my best behavior. As they put the dishes on the table, I gave myself an internal pep talk about the veggie: it’s a lovely bright green and smothered in butter--how bad could it be? I scooped out a portion, took a bite and, to my surprise, it had a nice, crisp texture and a pleasant flavor. Proud of myself for actually enjoying a green vegetable, I immediately inquired. Imagine my shock to discover that the mystery vegetable was none other than my arch nemesis, the green bean! Could my memory of the green-bean trauma have been overly dramatized? Had I undergone that massive a maturity spurt? No, this was not the same legume. It was--gasp!--a fresh green bean, as opposed to the drab and mushy canned variety I’d been tortured with. (Of course I called my mother with this revelation as soon as I got back to my dorm room.) I’m not saying my issues with food are all my parents’ fault or anything but force-feeding me canned veggies certainly didn’t help!

Now, don’t go thinking that just because I’m "mature enough" to choke down items at a home-cooked meal or try some ethnic foods that I’ve gone and changed my tune. My eating habits are still on the extreme. For example, I only eat turkey with ketchup. I eat the heads of broccoli but not the stems. I’m don’t do chicken wings, buffalo-style or no, because food should not snap back in any way. If an onion should happen to slide out of its ring, I’ll toss it and just eat the breading. I also have a huge aversion to mayonnaise, but that’s more because of the way it sounds when you put your knife in the jar than the way it tastes. You see, there’s more to this bizarre quirk of mine than meets the taste buds.

While I still occasionally make efforts to widen my cuisine appreciation, I can’t be expected to challenge myself all the time. My friends can attest that I’m a creature of habit. Most of them can predict what I’ll order no matter what restaurant we go to. They’re amused by the way I have to examine my food before I eat it. They also laugh if I tell the server to wrap anything up for me, because I rarely eat leftovers. If something’s been partially eaten and in the fridge for more than a day, it’s too much for me to bear and must be trashed (same goes for any milk or food that’s in there while I’m gone for the weekend--regardless of the date printed on the package). So call me fussy, finicky, compulsive, or even persnickety. I am the Picky Eater poster child! Oh but wait, I’m an adult…