Some people (everyone who knows me) would say I am a finicky eater. I don’t like condiments, spicy hot food, cantaloupe, most desserts with chocolate, green peppers, clam chowder, and I am just warming up here.
As
a young boy, in addition to being picky, my behavior while eating often proved
strange. When eating my breakfast cereal,
I didn’t want anyone watching or talking to me.
To that end, I staged three or four cereal boxes around my bowl on the
table and then hunkered down inside this little fortification of my making to
eat. If one of my sisters moved a box – which
they regularly did to annoy me – I squealed at them.
I
also found myself repulsed if different foods on my plate touched each other. The thought of mashed potatoes and gravy
mixing with peas in particular drove my batty.
While eating, I made a point of keeping all foods separated. In addition, I ate only one thing at a
time. Once I finished one food, I moved
onto the next. If eating fish or red
meat, I always ate those first.
Some
years ago, I stopped making protective fortifications around my breakfast. I am no longer disgusted by foods touching
together on my plate. But if you plop a dollop
of mayonnaise on my plate, I am going to squeal.
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