Picky, Picky

I was a picky eater when I was a kid, which much to my regret has made me a picky eater as an adult. every once in a while I'll be brave - just three years ago an oyster made it all the way to my throat before being returned to a kitchen table, much to the delight of my uproarious friends - but those times are rare, and I stick to what I know. Part of this is not my fault - my parents never pushed me to "try new things", and we generally had the same bland meat/potato combo for most meals. If I didn't like something I wasn't forced to sit at the table until I tried it, my father would simply say "oh well, it's a long time 'til breakfast" and somebody else would swoop in and eat it. Unlike what I witness today, my parents made no effort to replace what they'd served me with something more to my liking, and my dad's saying about breakfast what buttressed by my mother's indifference later that night if hunger pangs hit me: "tough, the kitchen's closed." The only trick they'd ever use to get me to try something would be my mother insisting, "oh just eat it, you can't even taste the (ingredient)", to which I'd exclaim "then why is (ingredient) in there??!?!"

Today, kids are used to eating out for most of their meals and have more access to a more exotic menu. When I was a kid, any time the possibility of eating restaurant food arose it was met with delirious ecstasy; today, I've actually seen kids whine "can't we just eat at home?", which I still cannot wrap my head around. At all. The scenario at my house was more like his:

About once every, oh, 9 years my parents would decide you know what, let’s go into town for takeout instead of cooking dinner. Which would send my brother and I into a frenzy; we’d start shaking like soda, frothing at the mouth and just to make sure our folks would get our point we’d jump on chairs at the kitchen table and start our “mother and father, perchance you’d like to go into town and purchase some pizza we’d be much grateful, not only for the substance but for the love and support you’ve given us, providing a blanket of warmth in family in such a cold, cruel world” song, the lyrics of which were “P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!! P-I-ZZ-A!!!” One time we were doing this and from across the table I saw my brother slip off his chair, and in slow motion I saw his fall momentarily stopped by his temple meeting the edge of the table before his 8 year-old body fell to the floor. From my chair, I couldn’t see him on the floor, and it was all I could do to barely, quietly keep our chant going – hey, any momentum lost and we were right back to regular home-cooked dinner. Finally, after an amazingly long pause, I see a little, white paw fly up into he air and land SMACK! on the table...he’s up!! Dramatically dragging himself up to his chair, egg slowly rising on his temple and with a single-mindedness rivaled only MAYBE by the guy in Princess Bride looking for the 6-fingered man who killed his father, he found his feet, got himself together and our joyous chant resumed.

Was there any 60 minute stretch longer than when my mother would go into town to pick up the pizza? My mother would barely be out of the driveway and my brother and I would start our watch, noses pressed up against the living room window. You could see down the road about a quarter mile, each time we saw a glint of metal in the distance our frenzy would roil. At least if it was still light out you could quickly ascertain if it was her or not. God forbid it was nighttime; every pair of headlights creeeeeping down the road “is that her? Is that her? I think that’s her!!! It’s here-“ ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM car speeding by us. No mother, no pizza. Whoa. Has there ever been a sadder sentence written than that?

Over at Serious Eats today, we finally see a defense of the picky eater:

Yes, picky eating is often a repudiation of family, of culture, of the basic tenets of politeness. But it also marks the formation of an individual taste. We tend to be uncomfortable with firm stances on quality, often for good reason: The word “judgmental” started out positive, but now carries an unpleasant aroma. Though my son turns down some foods I love and consider good, he also has a knack for tasting artificial flavors or combinations that are slightly off. He is ever critical, but only sometimes wrong. And his resistance to parental pressure forces him to be creative in finding things he does want to eat.

Based on the opportunities he'll have that I never did, I doubt this kid will be a picky eater as an adult like I remain today. Maybe I'll email the writer to check back in with us over the years?