Slim Pickings

Sometimes I feel like the only adult who’s a picky eater. It seems like a description usually reserved for children throwing tantrums in restaurants, and while I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, I still have quite the narrow palette.

It’s pretty embarrassing to have frequent internal debates about something as basic as food: Do I say something about the food to the person who prepared it, or do I find a way to quietly, discreetly dispose of/waste it? To speak up about a dish’s relative inedibility is not only potentially offensive, but feels like a confession of a strange, juvenile flaw.

Being a picky eater is like having OCD in your mouth (and nose). Smell, taste, texture, and temperature can’t be too far from perfect without inducing gagging. It’s almost akin to (but, obviously, nowhere near as serious or devastating as) an eating disorder. It’s enough to worry whether my mouth is going to be like this forever. There are some damn good-looking foods I can’t bear to taste, and I feel like I’m missing out. Hell, it’d be nice to just not have to order everything “plain” (something that gets fucked up way too often).

Am I the only one out there who eats like someone a third their age??

p.s. I have a really long winter break. Two months long. That’s probably enough time to edit a set of photos.

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About Helena

I'm too Internet-old for this.
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