For this post to be remotely sensical, you'll need some background:
I am one of the world's pickiest eaters, second only to that one lady who eats shakes and fries exclusively. The list of things I like is far shorter than the list of things I abhor. When I go to Subway, I get turkey on bread. No embellishments. And even if my sandwich is delivered sans lettuce, I can tell if lettuce touched my food.
This is not to say I don't enjoy food, I absolutely do. I just enjoy the same few foods on repeat and prefer not to experiment (as this normally results in me dry-heaving and scratching at my tongue).
So, on Sunday, when my mom examined the pan of taco meat and asked my father what the chunks were, I knew I would not be partaking. As a rule, I don't do mystery chunks. I also don't do random bacon chunks, which happens to be what was floating in the meat.
Mom: Um...why would you add bacon?
Dad: I thought it might give it a nice smokey flavor. [Looking at me] You can't even tell it's in there!
Mom: Then why add it? That's my question to the world.
Me: I'm not hungry.
My internal reaction to this scene was two part:
1. Does my father not know me at all?
2. It's sweet of him to think I'm not a permanently damaged eater and might branch out.
When my dad realized I wasn't eating, he got up and began picking out the bacon chunks. It was a very sweet gesture and made me feel intensely guilty because, at that point, there was no way I was going near the meat medley. I had been unraveled by a smidgen of bacon. It was a clashing of two worlds: normal people who can experiment and me/three-year-olds. As he picked at the bacon, my perception of the scene's hilarity mounted. There was my dad sweetly trying to remove the source of my revulsion, and me, wondering who in the hell adds bacon to taco meat. I rested my head on the counter to calm the bubbling laughter that envelopes me whenever it shouldn't. But all my attempts at self-sobering fell short. The laughter swelled and then broke forth in raucous, unflattering bursts.
Wiping at my eyes I gasped, "Why would you add bacon?!"
And...end scene.
Though this story's climax is bacon was added to taco meat [admittedly not the most engaging of plots], it's tragically summative of my eating hoopla.
And to my father: I love you. Sorry our tastebuds will never understand each other.
I am one of the world's pickiest eaters, second only to that one lady who eats shakes and fries exclusively. The list of things I like is far shorter than the list of things I abhor. When I go to Subway, I get turkey on bread. No embellishments. And even if my sandwich is delivered sans lettuce, I can tell if lettuce touched my food.
This is not to say I don't enjoy food, I absolutely do. I just enjoy the same few foods on repeat and prefer not to experiment (as this normally results in me dry-heaving and scratching at my tongue).
So, on Sunday, when my mom examined the pan of taco meat and asked my father what the chunks were, I knew I would not be partaking. As a rule, I don't do mystery chunks. I also don't do random bacon chunks, which happens to be what was floating in the meat.
Mom: Um...why would you add bacon?
Dad: I thought it might give it a nice smokey flavor. [Looking at me] You can't even tell it's in there!
Mom: Then why add it? That's my question to the world.
Me: I'm not hungry.
My internal reaction to this scene was two part:
1. Does my father not know me at all?
2. It's sweet of him to think I'm not a permanently damaged eater and might branch out.
When my dad realized I wasn't eating, he got up and began picking out the bacon chunks. It was a very sweet gesture and made me feel intensely guilty because, at that point, there was no way I was going near the meat medley. I had been unraveled by a smidgen of bacon. It was a clashing of two worlds: normal people who can experiment and me/three-year-olds. As he picked at the bacon, my perception of the scene's hilarity mounted. There was my dad sweetly trying to remove the source of my revulsion, and me, wondering who in the hell adds bacon to taco meat. I rested my head on the counter to calm the bubbling laughter that envelopes me whenever it shouldn't. But all my attempts at self-sobering fell short. The laughter swelled and then broke forth in raucous, unflattering bursts.
Wiping at my eyes I gasped, "Why would you add bacon?!"
And...end scene.
Though this story's climax is bacon was added to taco meat [admittedly not the most engaging of plots], it's tragically summative of my eating hoopla.
And to my father: I love you. Sorry our tastebuds will never understand each other.
hello from one picky eater to another. bacon is my enemy. sometimes i feel un-american for disliking it, but i most definitely hate bacon. even the smell of it is worthy of a gag.
ReplyDeleteanother picky person!!! I am picky as well and sometimes I feel like the only one. I don't like vegetables so whenever I get a sandwich, it's the meat, cheese, and the bread. It's nice to see that there are others like you out there. And though I do like bacon...it should never be mixed with taco meat. NEVER. haha
ReplyDeleteas I was reading this I remembered a time I asked my dad to make me an omelet. he finished....I took I bite and spit it out. when I asked what he used in it he said "left over KFC!" so gross. I can still taste it. When it comes to food you would think your dad was blood related to grandpa von...not your mom. my dad would have thought bacon in taco meat was brilliant! I am more on you side on this one. sorry Alan:)!
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