Food for Thought

I have been a picky eater all my life. If it wasn’t for peanut butter and jam sandwiches, I am quite sure I would have starved to death as a child. I always said that I liked what I liked and no one could tell me what I liked better than myself. I am not sure where this came from, whether I was born with genetically sensitive taste buds or somewhere along the line I learned not to like certain foods. The genetic argument has fallen by the wayside as my kids will eat almost anything put in front of them. However, I do have one child who is mortal fear of a “breach”, as she calls it. That is when one of her food items touches another on her plate. It is an exercise in civil engineering when we have any dinner that involves runny gravy.

Some people have no tolerance for picky eaters. Mrs Belcher, who was the nurse at the school I went to, was one of those. When we sat done for dinner (that being a hot lunch; as opposed to supper, which was what you call dinner), we had to eat everything on our plate. It didn’t matter if it was still moving, growing hairlike follicles out of it or just plain looked or smelled unappetizing. I think she lived through the Blitzkrieg or something and lived by the adage, “waste not, want not.” However, all it took was one well placed regurgitation on the table and that stopped her nagging. Unfortunately for a week or so afterward, I was forced to sit with a bucket at my side. It is kind of hard to carry out any sort of social interaction with a puke bucket beside you. People have a tendency to sit a little farther away from you at that point. Usually just out of projectile range.

Often my explanation took on a religious slant. “If God had meant a hotdog to taste like mustard, He, in all his wisdom, would have made it taste like mustard.” I would solemnly incant. Of course, what I didn’t realize was that God had nothing to do with the creation of a hot dog and that condiments were there to mask the horrible realization of what a hot dog was actually made up from.

I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I would studiously examine what the food item was and took many things into consideration before even deciding to sit at the same table as it. Smell, texture and appearance all were part and parcel of my testing. However, one of the biggest tests was also one of the simplest. What was it called? I guess this is why chefs often couch the name of something with a more pleasant sounding thing. Like calamari or escargot, these are things that in English would cause anyone a second thought. Squash was one food that needed a new name. Often food carries a descriptive nature to it. Mashed potatoes are one that comes to mind. What do you do with the potatoes? You mash them, hence mashed potatoes. Now think of squash. What do you squash? Bugs, of course. How in the world is a child to make that distinction? The same with yogurt. Yogurt is the sound your cat makes in the middle of the night when it is throwing up. A delectable taste treat? I think not. George Carlin famously said he didn’t eat tomatoes because they don’t quite look finished yet. Tapioca was great until a cousin of mine called them fish eyes. In my mind, if people could call squid, calamari, then I wouldn’t put it past them to call fish eyes, tapioca.

The marketing of food is one of the areas that had a profound effect on me. One time when I was quite young and had just watched a Popeye cartoon on a Saturday morning, it came upon me to try spinach. In all my youthful logic, I figured if I opened a can of spinach, poured a healthy amount of the green stuff in my mouth, like Popeye did, I would be blessed with the strength of a hundred men. I ran into the kitchen opened a can, popped the contents in my mouth and ran outside and tried to lift our house. All that happened was I covered the side of the structure with green vomit.

As I have aged, my taste buds seem to be dying off a bit as I now eat a lot of the things that would have mortified me in my younger days. But also as I have aged, I have found out that any food drenched in any combination of butter, salt or pepper or garlic will usually end up passing the gag reflex. I do now enjoy a good meal and I will often venture off into the unknown and untested culinary delights that is put in front of me. And I do this bravely without the puke bucket beside me, albeit within running distance of the washroom. You can never be too sure about these things.

Happy Birthday!

Sixty five years ago today the world was shaken to its core as my mother gave birth to the oldest member of my family; my brother Michael. He has lead a very interesting life, if such a mild adverb could ever be used when talking of Mike. His experiences as a member of the famed Special Forces in the US Army in both the U.S. and in Vietnam are the things that stories are written about. Many times he has kept us transfixed with a strange combination of humour and horror as he recounted some of the events of his life.

When we spoke yesterday, he asked me if I could post a poem I wrote a little over 33 years ago. For some odd reason it resonated with him. Given his well known lapses of memory which is not always 420 induced, it was remarkable he recalled it. So in honour of his birthday, I did dig out an old volume of things I wrote when I was a mere lad. Although the mates and spouses may have changed over the years the sentiment still remains today.


LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
I'm writing this will, I know I must,
Soon to leave not even a tracer,
I know I'm going to meet my maker.

Don't argue with me, I know it's time,
(This sentence is here to fit the rhyme,)
Of sound mind and sound body,
Nothing I leave is ever shoddy.

To Brother Micheal and his wife Linda,
A package for you I doth senda,
My satin sheets I give are free,
But understand they're C.O.D.

To Sister Jane and you too Norm,
What I leave you will keep you warm.
They're in the corner - take a look,
All for you, my paperback books

And now to Vicki and Brother Dunc,
Do not feel that you are sunk,
Although the biggies are now gone,
I leave to you my new brass john.

To Geoffrey who I hold so near,
I give to him all that's dear,
To you a person who always walks,
I leave to you all my socks.

Last but not least, to my Dad,
Who stayed in tune, never sad,
I leave the important part of the will
I leave to him, the funeral bill.