I was always a picky eater. Extremely. My mother has always blamed that on my fathers mother. And likely rightly so. She was picky and I spent a lot of time at her house growing up, getting what I wanted when I wanted it.
At our house, there were lots of things that I didn't want to eat, but they tried to force it on me. I am sure a lot of kids are like that. But a lot of kids are not like me. I am stubborn. No, defiant. No, extremely determined to get my way when I want my way. When it came to food, I always wanted my way and I was going to have it.
First on that list was veal. I don't even know why I didn't like it, but I decided I didn't. So, on nights when we were having veal, I wasn't going to be eating it. My father said that if I didn't, I was going to bed hungry. I said I was okay with that. My mother, however, was not.
I didn't care either way. I was going to have my way. My mother cared. I ended up getting french fries and cranberry jelled something, my two faves. There were many other things I didn't want to eat, and I didn't.
At times, I needed to prove my resolve. The odd time they made me take a bite of chicken, or turkey, or roast beef. All things I did not want to eat. So, I took one bite, and spit it out emphatically. That worked. Never got served any of those things again.
My Aunt, Susan, my mothers brothers wife, was smart. She found out what I liked and she made it separately from whatever anyone else was having. For me, a lot of the time, that meant chicken liver. I know, Chicken Liver? I wouldn't eat chicken, turkey or roast beef, but I would scarf down chicken liver. I was weird. I get it. I still put ketchup on my tomatoes. Still weird. Deal with it.
I really didn't have reasons why I wouldn't eat those things. I did have a reason why I would not eat fish. I hated the smell and the taste. They rarely even made me try it or tried to force it on me.
And then......there were eggs. I hate eggs. The smell. The taste. The look of them. Hate them. You could put a gun to my head and tell me to eat eggs or die, and I am going to die. I wont eat them. Ever.
Now, in my mind, I have made a word association with eggplant. To me, eggplant must have eggs in it because it is called eggplant. I know. Crazy. I do actually know that isn't the case, but I am very literal and the word association alone is enough to get me to never try it.
In fact I have no clue what eggplant is like. Tastes like. Smells like. Whatever. So, wait a few minutes, I am going to go look it up.
I am still very stubborn and determined. But I like to think I am growing as a person. I looked up eggplant. Sounds like something I would eat if it was called pototaplant or tomatoplant, which it apparently is a close relative to. So, I am going to give it a shot.
Who knows where this might lead.
Listen to Justin Beiber?
Watch Chick Flicks and cry until the tissues run out?
Get a massage from a guy named Serge?
Well, haven't grown that much. Never mind. I will take a baby step and try eggplant.