No. 135 - Order Up!

I have issues with food. No, not the kind that inspires one to feed their face and then expel the contents into the nearest toilet; nor that other thing that makes some not eat anything and exercise like a crazed fiend. Seriously, if you knew me really well, you would know that exercise is a dirty, dirty word and vomiting on purpose? I mean, really? Ugh.

My Mom told me that everyday before I went to Kindergarten (when kids actually only went half a day in the afternoons), I would have a hot dog for lunch. A hot dog! Everyday during the school year! Now, on the very rare occasion when nothing else is to be found in the house, I will stoop to eating a hot dog with X. I try not to think about it.

I also will not eat Jell-O. You know what is in Jell-O, don’t you? Gelatin. If you love Jell-O, don’t google this. To me, that’s worse than a hot dog.

I struggle with bacon. I will eat it at home if Mr. DD makes it because he knows that it has to be fried for so long that if he was to drop a slice on the floor, it would shatter like Waterford crystal. At restaurants, they don’t seem to understand that when I instruct that I would like my bacon to be crispy, that I really mean “burnt beyond recognition.”

Cheese is a tough one. I will never understand why anyone thinks shredded cheddar on a tossed salad is a good idea. Yes, I do love pizza, but not CHEESE pizza. If I can’t successfully pull a slice of melted cheese off a cheeseburger, I will still eat it, but begrudgingly. But, ooh! how I love queso dip with chips. And spinach or artichoke is only tolerable when encased in cheese. But, when X wants just a slice of that pre-wrapped cheese? I shudder with revulsion with first the cold sensation in my hands, then the smell? It’s nearly too much. I will hand over the slice to X’s outstretched and eager hands as if handing over a rat’s carcass.

Here’s a biggie: Nuts. Any kind of nut. They are a bane, and anyone who is willing to ruin a good pan of brownies, carrot cake, fudge, or any desert and sweet by adding nuts to the mix is…well…nuts. Why? A nut is just a tiny chunk of fat and protein. So is hamburger. You wouldn’t add browned hamburger to your brownies, now would you? Exactly. This aversion goes all the way back to my childhood. My Mom would have to create two batches for every type of Christmas candy she made: one with nuts; one without. And if I am particularly desperate for some chocolate, say for example a Hershey’s bar and the only kind left in the vending machine is the one with almonds? I pick out the almonds. I feel a little shorted as those almond pieces take up maybe 15% of the total bar, but for chocolate, I’d do just about anything.

It wasn’t until I met Mr. DD that I ever had steak. Sure, I grew up on a farm, but it was too expensive to have what was last week my pet steer now become our evening meal for the next few weeks. I don’t know at what point after meeting Mr. DD that I started eating steak (his family is a rabid bunch of beef-eaters: the bloodier the better), but I would have to have it so well done, that you could tell when our order had been turned in when you heard, “What the fuck is this!” come out of the kitchen. I’ve graduated to medium-well over the years.

I find some irony in my attitude towards beef when you take a look at the chicken. Innocuous little thing, eh? We raised chickens, too, on our farm. It was a family event to go out to the coop where Dad would wring the heads off 4 chickens, and the three youngest girls, which included me, would pluck the feathers off the headless bodies after Mom gave them a dipping in boiling water – to help loosen the quills, while the dogs would crunch away on the heads. Later that night, there would be a fight for the fourth heart with Mom usually trumping us all and popping it into her mouth with a smug look on her face. Today, my chicken has to be skinless, boneless and almost indistinguishable from which part it is in order for me to eat it. And don’t even think about including any “bits” or “pieces.”

My tastes have “matured” over the years as far as variety. As for the ability to not poke or grimace as I inspect every plate of food ever to be placed in front of me to determine its edibility? That’s pretty immature, don’t you think?

It’s your turn: now’s the time to share some of your food oddities.

Personal factoid: My Zodiac sign is Cancer.