Arizona and I may like watching various shows on the Food
Network, but we pretty much exist on turkey sandwiches, pizza, tacos,
salad-in-a-bag and Things That Go On The George Foreman. And when we watch Chopped, his theory is that all of the
secret ingredients should go in the blender together and be served with a
straw—maybe with different size glasses and garnishes for each round. Appetizer
round? A sprig of cilantro and a soup cup. Dessert? A cherry and a coffee mug.
In other words, to say that we’re not foodies would be the
understatement of the week, maybe longer.
Now, this shouldn’t be blamed on our parents. Mine grew lots
of our food in a couple of big garden plots, and my mom canned jams, jellies
and pickles. And there’s a legendary story in Arizona’s family about the time
his mom gave him the choice between eating his peas and sitting at the dining
table for the rest of his life, and he chose the latter.
When we got old enough to make food decisions, however
(especially after my Big Breakup, when I could eat whatever, whenever for the
first time in many years), we both gravitated toward really basic menus that
happened to align just fine. In fact, the first time I met Arizona’s BFF, he
looked in the freezer, laughed, and said, “Is he still eating frozen pizza five
nights a week?” And I blinked and said, “I thought he was just going along with
me.”
Still, new things occasionally make their way into our menu,
like the homemade biscuits that made his eyes bug out with their yumminess, or
the occasional new fruit or vegetable. Now, I am not a vegetable girl—if it’s not lettuce, spinach or mushrooms,
forget it. And back in the day, when people used to tell me that my tastes
would change as I got older, and I would start liking other veggies, I would
dig in my heels, shake my head, and go with a mature and eloquent: “Nuh-uh. Not
gonna happen.”
But, folks, I’ve got to admit. It happened.
It was at a Subway. (I wonder how many of our middle-aged
suburbanite stories start thus, or at Starbucks, Panera, etc.) Or, rather, it
was back home one night, when I returned from volunteer hours late and hungry,
and Arizona offered me the remaining half of his lunch sub, as he had already
fed himself. Despite there being green peppers and (horrors!) tomatoes on said
sub, I was famished enough not to care, so I bit in. And angels sang.
Tomatoes, where have you been all my life? Too long, I have
reviled you as having the texture of a bloated tick when bitten into, with an
initial outer covering followed by a burst of goo. Too long have I required you
to hide in ketchup or salsa, your true nature disguised. But not anymore. Now,
I travel to Farmer Pete’s stand down the road for big fatties the size of my
two fists together, then consume them in salted slices or make towers inside my
turkey sandwich or burger. Om, nom, nom, nom.
And so, readerfriends, I confess—my taste buds have changed
with age, at least in this small way. I doubt I’ll be jumping on the Lima Beans
Wagon any time soon, or taking the Brussels Sprout Express to the corner of
Asparagus and Tripe, but for now I’m enjoying my baby steps.
So what about you? What foods did you love to hate as a kid,
only to discover them in later life??
