Why must people be so difficult? One reason I never want to open a restaurant is that I couldn’t handle the woman who comes in and orders the BLT with no tomato. What the fuck is a BLT without tomato?
And I would punish the “well-done” steak person. I don’t know how, but an accidental drop on the kitchen floor would not be out of bounds.
But I, myself harbor picky-eater-syndrome! I chalk it all up to experiences having to eat British food in school as a child, but it includes a distaste for almost all cooked fish. I love sushi—raw shrimp? Bring it on! But a cooked halibut is off the menu. Strangely, the insect versions of fish (lobster, crab, shrimp) are all exempt from this bizarre prohibition. I love them all.
How to reconcile our food likes and dislikes? Cooking for my very own family is an exercise in patience. Two will not touch any seafood whatsoever. One will not eat any meat except beef, and it must always be well done. One only likes his steak rare, and two cannot eat steak unless it is fried to a corpse-like fritter.
One despises cucumbers. Another despises cilantro. One will not eat my spaghetti sauce if it has mushrooms in it. She will pick them all out. Pick them all out, for fuck’s sake.
One will not eat cooked carrots. Raw carrots are okay, but not cooked. One does not like lettuce. Does Not Like Lettuce. Who the fuck doesn’t like lettuce?
As you can imagine, a meal cooked in this family requires quite a few ingenuities. Pork in the yakisoba disguised as beef wins over the pork-hater, but this is not a trick where you want to reveal the secret if you value your life. Trouble is, half the time they can’t tell what the hell is in their food anyway.
But don’t you be putting no goddamn asparagus in my rice.
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