I have a confession.
I am a picky eater.
Now, some of you will actually be laughing at this blog entry only two lines in because, well, this is not so much a confession as much as it is a musing on something anyone who has ever dined with me knows already.
I do not eat a lot of foods.
Some of the things I do not eat include:
Squash, zucchini, broccoli, mushrooms, rutabaga (sound funny, never tried), asparagus, sweet potatoes, peas (Jesus Christ, I really don’t eat peas…), cauliflower, sushi, ham, duck, deer, cottage cheese, shrimp, lobster, scallops, anything bone-in, most peppers, anything too spicy, anything buffalo flavored, and anything that is labeled as being ‘chunky’.
It, of course, extends far further than that. Those are merely the ones I could think of in thirty or so seconds of writing. I am a simple lady. I don’t need much to subsist on. Butter, cheese, noodles? I’ll take them! When you keep adding stuff to that though, trouble appears.
I’m also horrible about trusting food that I know I like if it’s prepared by someone I don’t know. I trust my dad and sister and boyfriend to make something tasty. Some friend’s mom, though? Errrr… I dunno. See, all those people closest to me know what I do and don’t like and realize that, seriously, I will take noodles and cheese. (but not velveta, cause that stuff is shit). You can make your friends who are eating dinner with us all kinds of stuff. Clam chowder? Whatever. Lamb? Sure. But me… I can eat noodles. And cheese. Then everyone is happy.
You’d think restaurants would be an issue, then, right? Not so much, it turns out. I have a go-to menu item for every cuisine. Mexican food begets three hard shell beef tacos. Italian means fettuccini Alfredo. ‘American’ style gets me a burger. Thai orders are usually pad thai, unless it’s the most wonderful thai place EVER, Yum Yum Thai. Fancy place means it’s steak time.
I’ve considered feigning an allergy to get past the whole ‘picky’ thing. People don’t look down on allergies. If you’re allergic to shellfish then they’re sorry that they made crawfish for dinner. If you just think they taste like chewy, rotting fish then, well, you’re kind of an ass.
This is why I’m praying that I don’t die of starvation in the Peace Corps, which seems at this point to be a real possibility. I’m flexible with where I’ll go, what I’ll wear, if I’ll have electricity, how hot it is, what I sleep on, the job I’ll have, but… what I eat? Ruh-roh.
You guys may end up sending me noodles.