I’d like to think that Chad and I are fairly reasonable people. Some may beg to differ, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have any traits that make us seem outwardly insane, large shaggy beard withstanding. But there is one major exception, we are both absolutely cuckoo, crazy go nuts, when it comes to our different food hang ups. The list of things that Chad and I won’t eat is long and exhaustive. That’s not to say we are not adventurous eaters, we do not shy away from Indian buffets, Pho, or any variety of Greek meats. We simply have extremely specific dislikes, and some of them are completely irrational.
For terrible example, Chad will not eat casseroles simply because he doesn’t like the WORD casserole. When I make a casserole I have to call it a “bake” or he won’t touch it. It is his belief that all casseroles contain cream of mushroom soup. He will not eat mushrooms because they are a fungus, and what grows on your feet? FUNGUS. He also doesn’t like chowder, sour cream, or cheesecake. His reasoning, “I picture like a chocolate cake with cheddar cheese slices on top.” ::twirls finger by head in the international sign for crazy::
Really, I’m no better. I won’t eat cooked orange vegetables– pumpkin, yams/sweet potatoes, carrots. I don’t like sushi, because the taste of nori disagrees with me, and I don’t like how you have to shove the entire thing in your mouth. I like to take small petite bites when I eat, similar to a small rodent. I am a bad Mexican and I don’t like avocado, tomatoes, or raw onion. On occasion I will eat guacamole, but it is usually a drunk occasion. Both of us gag at the sight of soggy bread. The mental image of a squished sandwich with grubby fingermarks pressed into the bread makes me feel ill. I remember in elementary school disgusting boys would take their white sandwich bread and roll it up into little grey balls and flick it at you. DAMN YOU BOYS TO HELL. I also recall a girl who threw up EVERY DAY at lunch and all the way up to senior year of high school would have eye boogies in the corner of her eye. I never liked her.
Don’t you want to invite us over for dinner? We will be perfectly happy just as long as you use sectioned plates, we prefer for our food not to touch. I hope we don’t pass down all these idiosyncrasies to Truman, but I fear it’s too late. He is already a critic and does not share my predilection for clam chowder.