Monday, April 11, 2005
taste test: a prelude
I found this on my memory key, the too lengthy introduction to the first draft of the post about preferences driving us apart, and it made me laugh. It's probably some sort of pathetic blogger disease to think that something I wrote that makes me laugh four months later would also make someone else in the world laugh, but if it is, I don't think they've got any medicine for it yet, so...
When I was in Kindergarten, the class day was over at noon. My mother was a substitute teacher, so some days I had to stay at the school for afternoon daycare. During lunch our caretaker would distribute plates with the main course already prepped, and then circle around to offer each side dish individually. If it was something we liked, we said, "Yes, please," and she would give us two spoonfuls. If it was something we didn't like, we would say, "No, thank you," and she would give us one spoonful. We were required to eat everything they put before us.
It was a private school, you see, so they had the power to require that sort of thing.
I was a very finicky Kindergartener. Although I loathed all vegetables but celery with peanut butter, my least favorite side dish was cooked carrots, especially when mixed with English peas. Blegh! My keen sense of social justice was outraged every time I was not fed a hamburger with french fries and ketchup (i.e. every day but Friday): the only offer to elicit the coveted yes, please from my discerning mouth. I gnashed my teeth as I ate those carrots, and swore to next week eat nothing but cake.
I've grown a bit more tolerant in my old age. Although I'm still not too fond of English peas, I now consider cooked carrots a paragon of earthly delight. What once sent my pharynx into convulsions now sends my palate into exultations. That same year, I threw up all over the dinner table when my dad forced me to eat broccoli. I really did--all over my plate and the salad dressings. But I can put down some broccoli casserole these days, and I can even stomach the raw stuff if I smother it in ranch dip and close my eyes until I swallow.
Why the change of heart? Did my tastebuds mutate after years of standing too close to the microwave? Or, after gaining control of my gag reflex, did I finally learn to appreciate a wider range of sensational experience?
Was my hatred for vegetables a diversifying idiosyncrasy to be embraced, or a sign of immaturity that needed to be erased?
When I was in Kindergarten, the class day was over at noon. My mother was a substitute teacher, so some days I had to stay at the school for afternoon daycare. During lunch our caretaker would distribute plates with the main course already prepped, and then circle around to offer each side dish individually. If it was something we liked, we said, "Yes, please," and she would give us two spoonfuls. If it was something we didn't like, we would say, "No, thank you," and she would give us one spoonful. We were required to eat everything they put before us.
It was a private school, you see, so they had the power to require that sort of thing.
I was a very finicky Kindergartener. Although I loathed all vegetables but celery with peanut butter, my least favorite side dish was cooked carrots, especially when mixed with English peas. Blegh! My keen sense of social justice was outraged every time I was not fed a hamburger with french fries and ketchup (i.e. every day but Friday): the only offer to elicit the coveted yes, please from my discerning mouth. I gnashed my teeth as I ate those carrots, and swore to next week eat nothing but cake.
I've grown a bit more tolerant in my old age. Although I'm still not too fond of English peas, I now consider cooked carrots a paragon of earthly delight. What once sent my pharynx into convulsions now sends my palate into exultations. That same year, I threw up all over the dinner table when my dad forced me to eat broccoli. I really did--all over my plate and the salad dressings. But I can put down some broccoli casserole these days, and I can even stomach the raw stuff if I smother it in ranch dip and close my eyes until I swallow.
Why the change of heart? Did my tastebuds mutate after years of standing too close to the microwave? Or, after gaining control of my gag reflex, did I finally learn to appreciate a wider range of sensational experience?
Was my hatred for vegetables a diversifying idiosyncrasy to be embraced, or a sign of immaturity that needed to be erased?
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