We sat down for a twist on our usual "dorm dinner" the other night. Anna had pleasantly laid out an array of Mediterranean hors'dourves to lure us to the always delicious table. The menu boasted tzatziki, pita chips, hummus, some chicken/bean stuff, fresh strawberries, and a delicious salad. As I elevated one more pita chip smothered in tzatziki to my mouth, one of the roomies blurted out, "I'm so proud of you for eating all this! Look, you guys, she LIKES it!"
In my mind, I'm one of the least picky eaters ever. My taste limitations only exclude three things: olives, green pepper, cashews. Seriously. That's it. Unfortunately, only I will ever believe this statement.
The dorm has grown accustomed to my 'preferences'. (1) I've been lactose intolerant my entire life. It's pretty much miserable because I suffer from an addiction to cheese and ice cream. So no dairy for me without my trusty lactase enzyme pills. (2) Two-point-five years ago, I chose to adopt a vegetarian diet, suffering a touch of PTSD from academic research on factory farming, a past roommate's bout with food poisoning (from chicken), and the horrendous ozone layer of our suffocating planet. (3) Since high school, most of my stress has led to psychosomatic symptoms in the form of headaches and stomach issues. Luckily, though I still fail to manage my stress levels, I do know what foods make this condition worse or better at the time of infliction. (4) I hate hate hate germs, especially on my food. I won't eat something that has touched my {or anyone else's} fingers, dirty silverware, or potentially contaminated surfaces.
Sure, I'm a little neurotic, particular, and stubborn, but I really do LOVE food and so a 'picky eater', I consider myself not. I will taste most things once, and most things I taste I like. My poor deprived tastebuds have just been assigned to the wrong tongue--in a body that doesn't agree with their flavorful preferences.
--Claire
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