The waitress said I’ve started a new trend. I took the normally cold California crab roll and had the chef add those cute little fluted cucumbers along with spicy mayo and ripe mangos. I also wanted them warmed then drizzled with a large pond size amount of eel sauce. I might point out that a big juicy apple is far more delicious after they’ve been dipped in melted Harry & David sea salt caramels and covered with peanuts. Not just any apples and peanuts. Honeycrisp with roasted almonds. But my boyfriend makes fun of me. He often conveys that I can’t just order something simple, I have to make adjustments to almost every food item I intend on consuming. Need I remind him that the sensitivity of my taste buds and making slight modifications is a very large part of my happiness.
I grew up a picky eater. Except when I sat down to our table of twelve grabbing anything I could to stay alive once the sibling vultures swarmed in. Which may have resulted in a death camp for cuties. If we didn’t like something, I remember my mother’s stern expressions when she tried reasoning with her fussie foodies. Yet I quickly figured out how to crucify Brussels sprouts. Or at least our dog did. It was that, or watch me gag on green balls. Neurologically speaking, that’s why today I need to be downing lots of iron, fiber, and folate. My lips never did launch forth for liver. I was eventually instilled with a love of pickles and ice cream through veritable prenatal proximity.
Mama never provided us with a children’s menu. For breakfast, she toasted my bread and buttered it using non-melting margarine. She could have at least blindfolded me before lathering the lard, or done it in a closet where I couldn’t watch her. I wanted the taste of real butter at a very young age and needed to lubricate my arteries, not harden them. What was worse is that she never topped that toast with Hershey’s syrup or Pez candies. My tummy trusted them far more than what oleo chemists created. The increasing consumption of pig fat will eventually impact how much the earth can hold and just might affect its rotation. Mom also ratified the cockamamie concept that I liked dry toast when serving it to me when I was sick. I decided that only popsicles were suitable for consumption. Everything else was pre-tested by my teddy bear then thrown to the floor. If spit out unsweetened fruit drinks had been floor wax, then we had the shiniest tiles in town.
My sustentative annoyances continued. If I saw strings on bananas, I’d go berserk, then beg for grapes. But they could never have pits, plus I liked them accompanying cheese. Only American cheese. From there I turned into the tender age of a teen dictatorial negotiator. I felt my only means of physical endurance was through pizza. I didn’t get second meals made for me after refusing veal cutlets and broccoli with hollandaise. Mom sometimes threw together English muffins with tomato sauce, cheese, and pepperoni. I would have wholeheartedly loved it and eaten it if she cleared off every bit of sauce and pepperoni. And those meatless Friday’s made me crazy. I recoiled in disgust having to stomach tuna casseroles with crushed potato chips. It was part of my job description to complain and pose as a food allergist. Being the roguish protester that I was, I’m sure my parents thought I would end up as a major counterterrorist for the Mossad. By age seventeen, they put enough expensive metal in my mouth to anchor a navy ship. I’m sure that’s why they called it ‘precious metal’. They probably figured that I wouldn’t get married and give them grandbabies with buck teeth. But it was hard eating with braces and head gear. I insisted on milkshakes, but mom insisted on pureed peas. I eventually took the ingenious route to sanity and survival. I drank a lot more dinners once I discovered distilled beverages.
Now that I’m grown, the love of butter has led me to use subliminal messaging when dining with friends in their homes. Right before eating, I get into the kneeling position and pose as the Land-O-Lakes girl pretending to churn cream. I figured if the hostess doesn’t heed the obvious message that I require real butter, she probably wouldn’t be very spiffy at playing Charades either. Although I must admit, butter or no butter, I hate to miss a meal. I do need to lighten up my dairy load though before my belly gets to be the size of Bangkok. God knows that standing heavy on a scale can trigger emotional problems and earthquakes.
One basic axiom of dietary Queenism involves secretly choreographing my movements when I’m taking bacteria ridden lime rinds out of my martinis. And who is going to arrest me for assault with a deadly fork when I’m spearing every pearl onion that are mixed with my peas? Before my beau browbeats me into total shame for breaking those no substitution rules in restaurants, I need to emphasize that I may only have a few more minutes to live so I should get what I want. Like he himself says unceasingly, “I could drop at any minute.” Besides, both of us tend to get a little finicky the times we’re not wearing our glasses. It’s simply impossible distinguishing what’s on our plates when seeing is roughly equivalent to having Helen Keller feel her food for authenticity and superbness.
I like to tell my loverboy that should he ever venture to elitist cities like LA or New York, babes there are far more picky than I am.