(Images nicked off the internet, collage created by yours truly.)Hmph and double hmph! What, I want to know is it with people who say: "Oh I don't eat this and I don't eat that."
For those of us with genuine and multiple food intolerances who would love to eat all sorts of things, those who are just plain picky are right pains in the proverbial situpons. For those of us who have always loved food, luxuriated in eating, delighted in concocting delicious meals, and relished trying a bit of everything, watching those who can genuinely eat anything but won't, makes us incline to murderous intentions.
Went out for dinner a while ago... friend perused menu... "Ooh no," she clucked, "I don't eat tomatoes... or asparagus. Yuck. As for polenta - gross."
Significant Other glanced over, "Yes," he said, the treacherous creature, "I don't like asparagus either. Nor do I care for funny things wot live in the sea. Don't like smelly cheese either."
Oh to be able to be so wantonly fussy.
The Mother is the worst. Doesn't eat mushrooms unless they've been peeled. Doesn't like vegetables, doesn't see the point of pasta, risotto or spices, refuses to eat anything porcine, caprine or avian (yes, well a certain chicken of my acquaintance thinks this is no bad thing... even if it has nothing to do with being kind to animals). And the list goes on. Finding a restaurant to which to take The Mother is downright difficult.
"Do you do plain grilled fish or steak?" I have to ask. "No? Okay. Reservation? No, thanks all the same."
I wish I could afford to be so fussy. But I can't. Besides, I had a father who could best have been described as an adventurous eater. My dad loved his grub and was willing to try almost anything once. His daughter grew up to be still more adventurous and has been known to try pretty much everything. I won't tell you all the things I've eaten as the animal and creature rights activists amongst you will be deeply offended. For those of you who were of the mistaken view that I am a vegetarian, I am not. Much to a certain Chicken's disgust. I was once. But it made me manic. For someone often nicknamed Tigger, trust me, I don't need more bounce. For two years my mother had to tolerate me bounding off the walls and ceilings. Eventually I resumed eating meat to slow myself down. It's true.
Today, ten thousand food tolerances later, I eat meat because I can't digest lentils, soya beans and such like legumes filled with protein. Nor can I wash it down with products that come from a cow or a goat. (Besides, I'm of the view that milk was meant for baby cows - not big humans...) And as much as I'd love a huge bowl of pasta or a dish of polenta, it's just not a happening thing.
But back to my present hissy fit.
"Oooh," said Significant Other, last night, "you're making what?!"
"I'm making a seafood soup," I muttered.
"Urgh! Disgusting!" he bleated.
I turned on him with a beady eye (I was borrowing a look I learned from Atyllah). "Disgusting is it?" I snapped. "Nice to be able to be so picky. Nice to be able to choose. Fun to be so squeamish about things wot have tentacles. What are you? A man or a mouse? Eeep, eeeep."
"Ah," he said, "I can see you're better. Back to your usual acerbic self."
"Mouse!" I snapped.
"Mouthe," he retorted, grinning
"Squeak!" I snapped. "Then shut your gob before I pop a squiggly squid in it!"
But see, here's the thing: I'm picky about what I eat because I have no choice. I would love to snarf down a bowl of fettucine con funghi, or a dish of Tuscan bean stew - and finish it off with a slice of chocolate cake and a dollop of ice cream or a nice plate of assorted cheese and biscuits. But I can't. So I get really pissed off when those who can eat whatever they choose, witter on about "ooh, I don't like this and I don't like that." Wish I had room to be so fussy. I'm sure all the millions starving across the world think the same way too.
Hissy fit over. Ranting complete. For now... besides, it's time for a mug of cocoa made with rice milk. How the mighty adventurous eaters have fallen.
Sigh.
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