In Which I Return

OCTOBER 20

         Perhaps this blog falls somewhere in between Avril Lavigne and the Roanoke Colony on the Where-Did-They-Go spectrum. There are many theories that could be posited in answer to this question:

1)   The blogger abandoned his quest to try new foods and is sitting in the corner dribbling Chiquita banana baby food on to his bib. (ANSWER: False. But, said blogger did have Chiquita banana baby food when recovering from wisdom tooth removal. Yum!)

2)   The blogger completed his quest to conquer picky eating and now travels the world as a gourmet food taster.

If so:

a.     He last was seen in Zurich dining upon a fine ratatouille with the Duchess of Hapsburg. (ANSWER: False.)

b.    Employed by the King of Lithuania as the Royal Food Taster, he cleared the way for the king to eat all sorts of lamb, crocodile meat, exotic sauces, and never-before-consumed creams before being felled by a teaspoon of arsenic in, of all things, the King’s mini-corn muffin. (ANSWER: Nopes.)

3)   The blogger continues to be a picky eater but has slightly expanded his palate and is no longer stricken with terror at the concept of trying a new food. (ANSWER: Indeed. When presented with “Fried Catch of the Day,” he will often try it, under the false impression that it is chicken fingers.)

Since my Shakespeare: Histories and Tragedies professor recently

issued a warning that women should steer clear of men who speak in the third person, I will quickly switch back to speaking in the first person, so as to avoid my own history turning into a tragedy.

         Before the blog collapsed and vanished, there were scattered notes left behind. Here I try to recreate the last post that I had begun to write:

“Let me add to the previous discussion of haddock before we proceed: at one point, my father put a large piece of haddock in his mouth without looking at it. It turned out to be an entire lemon. One for the family blooper reel.

Anyway, upon my return from vacation, the great breakthrough arrived. I went with my friend to a Korean restaurant, confident that there wouldn’t be a thing on the menu that I would eat.

This restaurant, though not that large, was quite remarkable.

For example, there was a small lagoon in the doorway:

At this point, there was a photo of a small lagoon in a doorway.

Oh, and upon that small lagoon was a gigantic cliff climbing into the heavens:

Photo would have illustrated this.

And what should you always put on your cliffs? Why a white grand piano, of course:

There was actually a grand piano on a cliff. And I had a picture too.

Such a classy restaurant. Especially their lighting fixtures:

Then there would be a photo of paper towel taped to a lightbulb on a cliff wall.

Nothing says class like paper towel taped to a lightbulb on a cliff wall.

That being said, my friend suggested I order the gopdol bibimbap. I would have such difficulty pronouncing it that I wouldn’t realize I had never eaten anything in it before. You could get it with either chicken or beef, so I strongly requested that my friend order it with chicken (he speaks Korean).

When the waiter arrived, my friend pointed at me and said, “Gopdol bibimbap.” Impressive.

In the meantime, we got an appetizer plate of various things I had never eaten. These things began with bean sprouts. These look vaguely alive, slimy, and disgusting. I think one bit my tongue. I was not a fan.

The next appetizer was a plate of spinach something. I much preferred this to the bean sprout, but it probably was not something I would return to any time soon.

Suddenly, in came the godpol bibimbap!

I had never eaten anything in a hot pot before so I was disturbed that my gopdol bibimbap was making noises and bubbling when it arrived and continued to do so for an extended period of time.”

There ended my saga. I tried all the things in the gopdol bibimbap including crab meat and beef. So many points.

I maintained a list of the foods I had tried going forward into the summer: these included coca cola (meh), seltzer with lime (meh), Sun Maid golden raisins (WHY IS THE SUN MAID NOT IN THE BOX? POOR ADVERTISING), a bialy (which I liked), scrambled eggs (which I loved!), guacamole (nope), almond chip Korean cookie (amazeballs), a cheese omelette (incredible!), deviled eggs (errr…), swordfish (hmm…), cheese (Cheese? Who knows what kind?), curry puff (no recollection).

            The major addition to my eating array has been scrambled eggs and cheese omelettes. I will now eat scrambled eggs with alarming frequency, something I had never tried before July. I will also eat watermelon and honeydew when available. And pineapple, but then again, pineapple so very rarely is available. So it’s a work-in-progress!

         Isn’t everything, though?

         Even Avril Lavigne’s mysteriously disappeared career. (According to Wikipedia, she got married and she’s 29 years old!!! Mazel Tov!)  

Fried Haddock

JUNE 13

Ah, vacation. The ocean’s roar, tours of the ancient ruins, the motorcycle rides through the village, the treks up the mountains filled with bleating goats, stuff like that. Actually, none of those.

But, the point is, ah, vacation is more like aghh, vacation for picky eaters like myself. When I go away, my daily menu is usually:

         BREAKFAST: French toast

         LUNCH: Grilled cheese OR Pasta with butter

         DINNER: Pasta with butter OR grilled cheese

Sometimes I just have grilled cheese for every meal.

We were at an inn where we’ve gone many times before: we had reservations every night at the same restaurant, the Tavern on the Inn’s first floor. Last time I was there, I ordered this mac and cheese dish with lake cream sauce, something like that. Lake sauce? Cream lake? Sauce brook? Who even knows. Anyway, it was good but preposterously rich – it had these breaded crumbs inside it – very delectable.

Point is, lake cream pasta was no longer on the menu – I don’t think anyone who is not a picky eater can fully understand the fear that pulses through you when you look at a menu and see not a single thing you’ve ever tasted. Panic.

The first night I ordered a double order of the buttered pasta from the children’s menu. Another major issue with eating out as a picky eater: calculating the children’s menu sizes. If you just ask for the children’s chicken fingers, you stand a chance of getting not even a hand’s worth of fingers – if you ask for a double order, they might give you a coop’s worth. The struggle is real.

This time, I violently misfired. Instead of a nice, normal dish of buttered pasta, I received a small vat. Suffice it to say I could not finish the pasta, perhaps additionally hindered by having ordered a popover for my appetizer (which turned out to be similarly sized to appease the alien intruders in the event that a race of giants from outer space should overtake the Inn – it’s best to be prepared).

Going in on Day Two, I was more prepared. I carefully ordered a double order of the children’s menu’s carrots and celery sticks – I mean, hey, it’s raw vegetable sticks, how many do they really expect a child to eat? Let me say: the best carrots I have ever eaten. And I eat a lot of carrots. Heavenly carrots.

The menu option of fried haddock entrée sounded vaguely like fish n’ chips so I asked for that. The waiter responded, “Oh, the fish n’ chips?” We were in business.

It was quite good and certainly qualified as a new food – after all, fish n’ chips is usually cod and usually called fish n’ chips – this was haddock and called fried haddock. It also marked the first time that I had ever ordered a new food as my sole entrée – or should I say my haddock entrée – hardeeharhar.

The next night I insisted we cancel our reservation and I ate coffee yogurt in the hotel room. The night after that we ended up in a different town at some sleazy restaurant where I ordered mozzarella sticks and chicken tenders and carrot sticks and celery sticks – this was a gross mistake in all senses of the word. The chicken tenders were nasty and the mozzarella sticks were like giant fried breading with some cheese inside. If the Tavern was preparing for the giant alien invasion, the sleazy joint with the mozzarella sticks was orchestrating it. They even gave an overly massive order of carrots and celery.

Actually, I think I would enjoy life as a rabbit. The average rabbit diet consists of good quality pellets, fresh hay, water, fresh vegetables. “Anything beyond that is a ‘treat’” declares the House Rabbit Society and “should be given in limited quantities.” That’s amazing. Everything should be given in limited quantities that’s not fresh vegetables, water, hay (let’s say bread?) and good quality pellets (which clearly symbolize applesauce and/or just good quality pellets) – that’s my ideal world.

Also very important from the House Rabbit Society: “Aggressive rabbits can be scary…Never tap your rabbit for biting.” No rabbit-tapping. Under no condition. Ever. 

Watermelon

JUNE 12

I went to my high school to see the graduation ceremony of the class below me. I went to see my young friends step up to the podium and receive their diploma as they moved on into the great, wide world. I went to see my former beloved teachers and their adorable babies. I went to see my classmates who were also there to visit.

But also I went for the mini corn muffins.

Don’t get me wrong: I loved my graduation from high school. It was a lovely day. The student speakers were witty and charming. The guest speaker was incredibly powerful and moving. But, lord almighty, the mini corn muffins.

If I had known, I might have flunked out of all my classes to get held back a year just so I’d have to attend graduation multiple times. Mini corn muffins are like animated shorts – you get the full effect but with less calories. Except that then you eat five. Or, at least, I did last year. But it was my graduation.

Now I was back for more. I sort of had a Grendel thing going on, except with muffins instead of flesh. (I hesitate to compare myself with Grendel, of course, given that I portrayed the role of Grendel’s Mother in a 2005 production of Beowulf the Musical, singing Mariah Carey’s “I’ll Be There” [“I’ll reach out your hand to you”] and “Oops, I Did It Again” [“I’ll play with your heart, your mind, and your veins”]. It was, needless to say, undoubtedly the greatest performance that I have ever given and that I will ever give. Pictures are available for money and/or mini corn muffins.)

Following the graduation ceremony, I raced out upon the field. The first table I came across boasted a large plate with a few crumbs – I had missed my chance. The mini corn muffins were gone!

My friend and his sister who is also my friend were to drive me back towards home so I rejoined them, realizing my mini corn muffins were not to be. Miraculously, their mom was detained by passing graduatory figures, giving me time to spot another table of food all the way across the field.

I sprinted – burning off the calories of one of the mini corn muffins I hoped would soon be digesting – to the table where I found a carton of Snapple, little personal bowls of fruit salad, and a tray of gleaming mini muffins. I picked up one – it was clearly a mini corn muffin. I picked up another – it was clearly not a mini corn muffin but, rather, another sort of muffin. I picked up another – a second corn muffin – success! Since I now held three muffins (only two of which I wanted), a Snapple, and a personal fruit bowl, I quickly went to my friend and presented him with the rejected muffin, a symbol of our eternal comradeship.

The two mini corn muffins were a source of enormous joy.

However, more importantly, the fruit salad contained watermelon, a fruit which I have only half-tasted in the past. Now, I would try it for real. I like watermelon – hurrah! It is very juicy and sweet – I would gladly eat again. Studies have shown that buying a half a watermelon is cheaper than buying chunks of watermelon.¹

I also ate more pineapple which I had eaten for the first time a few days earlier – it was as good as it had been that day.

Watermelon can join the list of new foods that I will now eat eternally!

Speaking of eternally, I look forward to the next of many graduations to come at my high school twelve months from now. I can’t wait to hear the speeches, see the smiling faces, feel the stifling heat. There’s no other possible reason why I’d be there.² What mini corn muffins?³

¹I went into a store and I saw a half a watermelon and chunks of watermelon and the chunks cost more.

²I jest. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, pastries or no. However, since there is now live Internet streaming offered, the mini corn muffins help as motivation to get out of bed.

³I also want to clarify that when I said “animated shorts” I refer to the kind of animated shorts that get nominated for the Oscars. Not the garment kind of shorts. 

Spinach Pie

JUNE 11

            In order to follow this story, you must know this crucial information: everyone starts at zero points.

         My eight-year-old cousin was visiting my house. (2 points for him) Since I was eating dinner with a friend, I left my mom to take care of him. (-3 points for him, 3 points for my mom) However, I soon came back (1 point for me). My mom had left my cousin to his own Netflix devices (-1 point for my mom) and my cousin had chosen to watch The Lorax. (1 point for him)

         I had never seen The Lorax and being a jerk of a cousin, I said I wanted to watch from the beginning. (-2 points for me) My cousin willingly obliged (5 points for him)

         I had never read The Lorax before – I wasn’t really familiar with it besides being vaguely aware that it had something to do with the environment and the truffula trees were all cut down (which I know from the bridge of “Here on Who” from Seussical the Musical.) (10 points for Seussical the Musical. Seriously.)

         But hold up: 100 points for Dr. Seuss. (Who died exactly on my birthday but one year before I was born.) (1 point for my obstetrician.)

         The Lorax rocks my socks – that’s some brilliant, powerful stuff. When they cut down the last tree? Whoa, there, that’s one heavy-hitting plotpoint.

         20 points to Betty White for doing the voice of the awesome grandmother. 5 grudging and reluctant points to T-Swift for doing the voice of the girl whose love of trees inspires the dude to find the Oneceler and restore nature to the town where they are living. Which has no nature. (Thneedville! 5 points to Dr. Seuss for the word thneedville because of the consecutive t, h, and n. Brilliant wordmaking.)

         Anyway, I was watching this movie when in came my father with a bowl of spinach pie. (-5 points for my father bringing in spinach pie.) (2 points for my father encouraging the gradual breaking down of my picky eater fears.) A few days earlier I had tried vegetable pot pie: a major failure on all levels. In that case, my parents had warned me against it. In this case, they claimed to love spinach pie. (3 points to each of my parents for eating spinach pie.)

          I’m not sure if there’s some magnetic component in spinach pie (and one in my body) because I was physically repelled by tasting the spinach pie. Like, actually, I was blown across the room. It felt a bit like a Stupefy reaction where you get blown off your feet and crash into a cabinet which topples over on you in the Room of Requirement. (1 point to me for Harry Potter reference.)

         Spinach pie is deceptively breaded, but it actually tastes terrible. To me. (1 point to you if you like it.)

         But, hey, a month ago, I would never have put this food of the devil in my mouth in the first place. The psychological barrier was starting to break down even if my taste buds (being human) rejected the spinach pot pie.

         Propelled across the room I tell you. I didn’t retain much from physics but projectile motion was me. After spinach pie. Momentum. Force field. I just always wrote down F=ma and got partial credit.

         F = ma (16 points of partial credit for me.)

         Anyway, as I was recovering from the spinach pie, my cousin left. (0 points for him) But, seeing as I had been having a great time, I continued watching The Lorax until its beautiful, heartfelt ending. (1 point for me for commitment.) I may have cried a little bit. I’m going to say it was post-traumatic stress from the spinach pie experience, though.

         So ends this tale: Go watch The Lorax. (If you do, you’ll get 105 points.)

Captain, we're gonna leave the fork to fare for itself and just run for our lives

         FINAL POINTS ROUNDUP:
You: 105 points if you watch The Lorax + 1 point if you like spinach pie – if you fulfill both, you win
Dr. Seuss: 105

Betty White: 20
Seussical the Musical: 10

My eight-year-old cousin: 8
Me: 6
T-Swift: 5
Mom: 5

My obstetrician: 1

My father: 0
Spinach pie: -∞         

         

Fish n' Chips

JUNE 10

            My father used to cherish a most powerful dream. He wanted a family. And with this family, he would eat bratwurst.

         When he married, he said to my mother, “Now, my bride, we shall dine at a German restaurant and feast upon the bratwurst.”

         My mother responded, “Hell, no.”

         But my father’s dream was undeterred. He knew that someday in the future he would eat bratwurst with his son and heir. Finally, the day came. His son was born. His son was me. I’m not eating bratwurst.

         (A quick aside: I’m not actually sure that it’s bratwurst. You see, bratwurst is “a sausage usually composed of veal, pork, or beef” [Thanks, Wikipedia!]. There are many types of bratwurst such as the Nordhessische Bratwurst. But while bratwurst si roasted wurst, brotwurst is “wurst intended to be eaten on bread” [Thanks, Google Answers!] But that’s not the wurst of it (heh heh): then there’s rotwurst: Thuringer Rotwurst also known as Thuringian blood pudding is a form of cooked blood sausage. [SausageWiki, cause like, that’s a necessary database] But here’s where it gets tricky: there’s also Thuringer Rostbratwurst which is a spicy sausage. Actually, these all might be the same thing. Who even knows?)

         Bratwurst still sounded like a little bit too much so I agreed to go with my dad to a seafood shack. Not like an actual shack. I’m just saying shack cause it sounds like I’m a seafood regular. (I’m not!) (But I do eat fish n’ chips!) (I used the “n’” to make it look like I’m a seafood regular too.)

         To be honest, I’m so new to fish n’ chips that I’m still reeling from the revelation that the chips are actually French fries. TWIST.

         So we were on our way to the seafood shack to eat clams and stuff cause I was going to be adventurous (never have had clams…except crab cake…wait, not the same). We didn’t actually make it there since I veered us off instead into a more familiar restaurant where I could order the side of mac n’ cheese.

         But, I also got fish n’ chips. (If you put them together carefully and take liberties with the apostrophe positions, you get macfish ‘nn’ cheesechips.) While I had eaten fish n’ chips before (once? Twice?) in my past, I had never ordered it as my sole (HAH!) entrée. (Not counting the mac n’ cheese.)

         It was fantastic though! I assume it was cod because fish n’ chips are usually made of cod. It was quite fried, crispy, and heavily breaded which is the way I like it. Well done, fish n’ chips.

         If I can eat fish n’ chips, all you have to do is confiscate the fries, unbread the cod, swap the cod with veal, pork, or beef when I’m not looking and call it a brotwurst, and then it’s brotwurst! I’m only four steps away from realizing my father’s most cherished dream! 

Mango and Raspberry

JUNE 9

         I was riding high. I had tried pineapple – loved it. Apricot – couldn’t get enough. There were two more fruits in the apartment that I had never eaten before and they happened to be the two sorbet flavors that I had sampled earlier in the month and enjoyed: mango and raspberry. How could this go on? Little did I know I was headed for a calamity. As they say, pride goeth before a fall.

         I called my manservant to attend upon me.

         “Dad,” I said. “Bring me some mango and raspberry. And make it quick. I don’t want to change my mind about this.”

         Such decisions can’t be unmade.

         Soon, the dish was before me. Mango and raspberry laid out – one next to the other. I had liked pineapple. I had liked apricot. I had liked blackberry tolerably too. This should have been just an ordinary fruit acquisition.

         But something went wrong.

Pride in the process of goingeth before a fall

         I shoulda known the minute I tasted the juicy mango, fat and well-fed: it wasn’t my style. We picky eaters, we have a style. And this wasn’t cutting it. But I was naïve. I couldn’t see the pathway forward. I couldn’t see where all this was heading.

         It was tart. It was kind of melon-like, kind of pineapple-like. But something wasn’t right. The texture, the taste, it just didn’t add up.

         Suddenly it hit me and it all made sense: I didn’t like mango.

         Reeling from this revelation, I dove into the raspberry. We all need some consolation.

         I couldn’t get no satisfaction.

         What’s the difference between blackberry and raspberry? (Besides the number of letters.) They are different colors. (Besides that.) They taste different. (Besides that.) One is an accessory and one is an accessory aggregate fruit. (Wait, go back one.) They taste different.

         Blackberries taste ok. Raspberries taste not ok. In fact, they are unacceptable. I do not like them.

         It was a rough evening. (For you and me both!) (Go away.) (Who do you think you are bossing me around?) (Get outta my head.) (How do you know you’re not the one in my head?) (Aw, put a sock in it.) (You put a sock in it.) (No, you put a sock in it.) ( ) (Hello?) ( ) (Are you there?) ( ) (Mmmfff.) (Oh, you actually put a sock in it.)

          And thus concluded my evening of new foods gone bad. Two fruits I just could not bring myself to cherish. 

Apricot

JUNE 8

Enjoying my fruity success with the pineapple, I decided I would try to increase my fruit-love with apricot. Ironically, I have had about twenty-seven thousand apricot jelly sandwiches, but I have never had the fruit itself. (Similarly, I drink orange juice all the time, but I’ve never had an orange.)

Apricot basically tastes like peach but with tougher, stretchier skin and requiring a bit more commitment to swallow. But I really like it – it’s very much in the peach, nectarine family and I would gladly consume again.

         Of apricot, peach, nectarine, I’d say in terms of my life and King Lear, peach is Goneril, nectarine is Regan, and apricot is Cordelia. I say this because I have always had an unhealthy obsession with Goneril and peach is my favorite of those three fruits. For those of you unfamiliar with King Lear, King Lear is a king (I hope you follow me so far) with three daughters, Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia. To skip an eye-gouging, a lot of loincloth, and the entire plot, Goneril and Regan are the evil (yet bad-ass) daughters while Cordelia is the good daughter who gets disowned (and has to marry the King of France instead of inheriting a third of her father’s kingdom, cause like, that’s a sucky punishment, right?).

         Goneril is the bees’ knees despite abusing her father, cheating on her husband, and poisoning her sister. I feel no need to explain why I feel this love. I just do. Goneril is clearly peach on the peach-nectarine-apricot spectrum – the most awesome and juiciest. Regan is nectarine – we’ll take her when there’s no peach. Apricot is Cordelia – last remembered and last eaten, tough on the outside and yet light enough to carry onstage after she gets hanged.

         The moral of the story is: At the end of the day, it’s Goneril, not Cordelia, who recites the line, “Holla, holla!” This is a true fact. (V.3.80)

Vegetable Pot Pie and Pineapple

JUNE 7

My mother purchased a vegetable pot pie. My parents encouraged me to eat it by exclaiming how disgusting it looked, theorizing on how gross it would taste, and generally condemning its smell, appearance, ingredients, and texture. I have an incredible support team.

This vegetable pot pie also boasted a special flavoring of tofu cream cheese. Since I don’t eat cream cheese and I sure don’t eat tofu, it was not quite a match made in heaven.

Vegetable Pot Pie Prepares for Battle

After my parents sniffed at the vegetable pot pie with scorn, I put a piece on my plate. I activated the 4-step process:

STEP ONE: Smell it.

STEP TWO: Lift it to your lips.

STEP THREE: If there’s a piece of it that’s clearly just breading, nibble that. Then start fake-choking from how much you don’t want to eat it. If there’s no part that’s clearly just breading, skip to the fake-choking.

STEP FOUR: Excuse yourself from the table.

Scene of the Crime. Graphic. NSFW. 

Once the process was completed, I decided that having failed to actually try a new food, I owed it to myself to find another food to try.

So, perusing the refrigerator, I decided to go for the pineapple. Pineapples are always hanging around my apartment, but I’ve always avoided them. This time, I would make their acquaintance and get to know them intimately.

Good news! Pineapple rocked my world. I love it – juicy, crunchy, awesome! It’s the first new food I’ve tried that I actually really, truly enjoyed – I ate the full portion and would have willingly gone back for more. Or tried pineapple juice. Or sorbet. Or even pineapple pot pie.

Well done.

The happy ending we all deserve. 

All this discussion of pineapple has got me thinking – this is mad important – do people eat pinecones? According to Wikipedia, pinecones are often made into toys called cone cows and, “in Finland there is a fairground with cone cow sculptures large enough for children to ride on.”

The answer, however, is revealed most tellingly in a YouTube video entitled “CJ Eating a Pinecone for 10 Dollars.” Spoiler alert: He vomits halfway through. Double spoiler alert: He still gets the money. Lame. Hygiene alert: His friend got the pine cone off the ground and presumably didn’t wash it well before offering it to CJ for consumption. Saddest part: The video has been on YouTube for three and a half years and has only 772 views. After all that effort.

The question this raises is, What has CJ accomplished since this video? Has he eaten more of the forest? Has he joined a lumberjack office and worked as an assistant tree feller using his groundbreaking tree-eating methodology? I ask these questions because it occurs to me that perhaps what CJ needs for an image boost is to graduate to eating something truly heinous on YouTube and not vomiting: if he would like to attempt to eat the vegetable pot pie with tofu cream, I would be greatly intrigued to watch the ensuing video.  

Crab Cakes and Raspberry Sorbet!

JUNE 6

For my mom’s birthday dinner, we went to a nice rooftop restaurant to celebrate. And, what better way to celebrate than with cakes? By which I mean crab cakes, of course!

I have an issue right off the bat. Although I’m not a vegetarian (as my trying salmon and lamp chops has likely indicated), I still think we should eat animals with a lot of decorum and somberness. Cause, like, we killed them. I think we should eat animals with as much discretion as possible and as little pomp and circumstance as we can manage.

Which is why crab cakes present a serious issue – the word “cake” immediately evokes images of celebration and sentiments of partyin’ partyin’ yeah fun fun fun fun. No one would ever offer you lamb cakes or pig cakes. That would be gross and disrespectful. Instead, meats are named tactfully, like filet mignon. You can’t even tell whether the filet or the mignon is the dead animal – it’s all extremely solemn and polite. Also, like, salmon. It says very simply, here is a dead fish. No confetti. No chuppah. Just dead meat.

I think I’ve aptly demonstrated why crab cakes provide a titular disservice to the crustacean they are made out of. Furthermore, they’re pretty clearly not even cakes. Cakes are big enough for many people to enjoy and they have icing. Crab cakes are little and round.

I believe, therefore, that they should be henceforth known as crab balls.

Actually, on second thought, let’s just call them crab cakes.

The point is, I tried crab cakes! Which are made of crab meat. Which I’ve never eaten before. I was kind of afraid there would be pincers. After all, as the Norwegians say, “Pincer me once, you’re just a tease, but pincer me twice, you’re probably a crab.” (They don’t actually say that. But, according to National Geographic, in 2004, “red king crabs are now spilling down western Norway by the millions.” And they’re refusing to be made into cakes.)

Crab cake before consumption

Crab cakes are ok. Not really though. They kind of look like macaroni and cheese balls which were named with great appropriateness, by the way. I got through almost a full cake. Which sounds like a lot, cause cakes are big. Not so, my dear Norwegian friend with a crabs problem. It’s not that easy to make crabs into cakes because the cakes are tiny. I think a red king crab would take like three whole cakes. And you guys have millions over there! That’s a ton of cake. Point being, I actually had like a few bites. It was kind of a weird, meaty taste. Not really my thing.

Let’s be honest here: I don’t like crab cakes.

Crab cake after attempted consumption

I then defiantly ordered a raspberry sorbet, riding on the coattails of my mango sorbet success of past weeks. I had never actually eaten a raspberry before, but I was committed to going for it. Raspberry sorbet was good and sorbety, but, succumbing to genetics, I myself was pushed by its tartness into making my mom’s classic tart food face. That’s some tart sorbet.

Anyway, it was a worthy attempt, but I’d say don’t get crabs if you can help it! (At least not in cakes.)

In Which I Join the Vegans

JUNE 5

One of my best friends has recently become a vegan. Which is great. Reason being, if you go to a restaurant with a vegan, ordering chicken fingers or grilled cheese is nothing compared with asking to hear every ingredient and ultimately getting a piece of lettuce with a tofu cube on the side. In other words, vegans make uber-picky eaters look remarkably normal. That’s why I also love eating out with people with widespread allergies, God love ‘em. The difference is that I feel bad for refusing to try perfectly good foods that people with allergies would love to eat. With vegans, I feel absolutely nothing except alimentarily superior.

Anyway, this superiority goes away the second you try to eat with a vegan in a vegan restaurant. The picky eater no longer comes across as a picky eater, but he is suddenly a picky vegan.

But, when my friend told me there was a vegan restaurant she’d been excited about trying, I said okay. I hadn’t tried a single new food since the blackberries and I thought maybe a restaurant filled with foods I didn’t eat might shake me up a bit.

I looked at the menu online and saw they had whole wheat quesadillas. Perfect! With tapioca cheese. I google imaged tapioca cheese and it looked mildly edible.

I arrived at the restaurant excited to try new foods and I opened the menu, only to find the tapioca cheese quesadilla was no longer there. It turns out vegans are not only limited in what they eat but in what they name their restaurants and there are two totally different vegan restaurants with the same name.

So, back to square one. Or zero. 

I have to tell you something: I think veganism might be a cult. 

The first way I figured this out is that they worship Seitan.

The second way is that my friend and the waitress instantly began a conversation about making almond-crusted tofu something, a dish I had never conceived of in my wildest imaginings but one in which they were both well-versed. They also exchanged a large book of vegan recipes which is the Seitanic text or vegan Bible of sorts, perhaps.

Perusing the menu, I thought very seriously about running out to the nearest McDonald’s and rejoining my friend once I had purchased some Chicken McNuggets.

When the waitress asked me what I wanted to eat, I panicked and reverted to my default setting of, “Could I please just get plain spaghetti?” (I figured it would be fruitless to ask for butter.)

“Sure,” the waitress said. “But it’s gonna be whole wheat.”

Ah, vegans.

The whole wheat spaghetti was fine. I can’t really take credit for trying a new food. It was remarkably bland. I also had like 5 glasses of water. Just so you know.

The waitress gave us the dessert menus and I was thrilled out of my mind to see they had vanilla ice cream. Then, I realized, what exactly would vegan ice cream be made out of? Paper mache? Baby powder? So I got no dessert. The waitress was very disappointed in me.

I did get something good out of that meal though.

“I’m trying to try new foods,” I told my friend.

“You should come to my house and I’ll cook vegan meals for you,” she said.

“No,” I replied warmly. 

“I’m thinking,” I went on, “that I’d be more motivated to try new foods if I wrote a blog.”

“That’s a fantastic idea,” she said. “You definitely should!”

So I did.

Beware: they're coming for you. But the good news is they definitely don't want to eat you! 

Blackberries

JUNE 1

The thrill of my success with the lamb chops sort of threw me for a loop and I didn’t quite try anything new for five days, opting instead to lie at home marathoning The West Wing. Which is, I think, a pretty valid decision.

Fate found me, however, at a restaurant with family for an early birthday celebration for my mom. This restaurant has a history involving my breaking free from my picky eating. I’m, as may be apparent, a big breadbasket guy and the breadbasket here contained only mini blueberry muffins. I love corn muffins, I love bran muffins, I even love banana muffins (depending on how nutty they are), but I had never eaten blueberry muffins. Last year, the basket arrived and I turned down the offer of a muffin when my then-7-year-old cousin turned to me with a scornful eye and said, “Dan. Just eat the muffin.”

I ate it. I liked it. Ironically, he’s probably more of a picky eater than I am. But then again, he’s eight and I’m almost twenty.

Anyway, this year, I ordered my old familiar favorite: the Grand Marnier Challah French Toast. Cause like, why not?

Feeling in the celebratory spirit, I neglected to specify that I don’t like things on things. Let me make that clearer: when I order things, an important thing to mention is that if there are things on the thing, I’d rather not have the thing on the thing but perhaps on the side. For example, the thing on the thing in this case was berries and I would rather have the berries on the side than on the French toast. (Seeing, of course, as how I don’t like things on things.)

I’m not a huge berry person. Let me clarify. According to Wikipedia, a berry is any fruit with seeds that has pulp from a single ovary which may be superior or inferior. Well, really. Though I would certainly never be so coarse as to insinuate that one ovary was superior to another, of the list of berries listed on Wikipedia, I’m really only into bananas and grapes. In terms of berries with the name berry, I really just like strawberries. Wikipedia ruins everything though and it turns out strawberries aren’t berries, they’re aggregate accessory fruits. So there.

(The strawberry tree is a berry, however. #treesareberriestoo)

As a child, I came up with this joke: What’s a fruit’s favorite bridge? The Tri-Berry bridge. Which is now the RFK bridge. So never mind.

The Grand Marnier Challah French Toast was topped with blueberries, blackberries, and strawaggregateaccessories. Having already eaten five blueberry mini-muffins at that meal, I figured that was enough blueberry. (I have tried blueberries in the past, but they’re not really my thing.) So my new food would be blackberries.

They’re good. They kind of taste like blueberries, but more little pieces which are a little chunkier and sharper. I don’t really have many words. They’re fine. They’re blackberries.

Guess what though? Blackberries aren’t berries. They’re aggregates. I don’t think they’re even aggregate accessories. Aggregates are composed of small drupelets by the way. As are we all.

By the way, Wikipedia also shares that old chuckle-worthy saying, “blackberries are red when they’re green.” Which is supposedly funny because when blackberries are not yet ripe (=green), their color is red. Hahahohoho. With that joke, my Tri-berry bridge joke, and $199.99, I could purchase a BlackBerry for my very own. 

Lamb Chops

MAY 26

Brace yourselves.

Today’s meal of choice was dinner with two of my best friends and a number of members of my best friend’s family (those who think I only eat white foods) and friends of the family. The locale was an oft-frequented Greek restaurant whose owner is a celebrity chef with the catchphrase, “I’m Greek all the way, baby!”

I view the restaurant and its proprietor with a sort of awe since they seem to me like the real-life manifestation of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, my favorite movie. (I can describe what’s happening on-screen by listening to the movie’s soundtrack with my eyes closed. True story. I’m magic.)

I therefore entered the restaurant with a certain level of trepidation since I was afraid I would fall victim to the famous, “He don’t eat no meat? HE DON’T EAT NO MEAT? Oh, that’s ok, I make lamb,” at the hands of this real-world Aunt Voula. (This quote is subtle foreshadowing – get ready…)

The first thing that happened was the delivery of a basket of warm corn bread to the table. YES. MY FAVE.

“You’re eating the cornbread?” my friend’s mom exclaimed. “How can you do so? Cornbread is not white!”

“Hahahohoho!” I replied.

But, really, though, I’ve got 99 problems, but a food-color-disorder ain’t one.

Real-life Aunt Voula then approached the table to take our order.

“Uhh…could I please possibly just get spaghetti with butter?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, aghast.

“No,” she said firmly.

“No?” I responded. Was this a joke?

“Not butter,” she said. “Olive oil.”

Now I had incurred the scorn of Greeks worldwide. According to Wikipedia, that holy font of knowledge, “the Ancient Greeks seemed to have considered butter a food fit more for the northern barbarians.” Okay, then.

At least I could get my spaghetti.

“He only eats foods that are white,” my friend’s mom told her.

The grand hostess stared at me, studying, and then spoke: “I remember you now…Mr. White.”

I would hope so. I was, after all, the author of the Constitution of the Greek Gods and Goddesses at the Greek Gods and Goddesses party at this restaurant only about a year ago. Don’t ask. I’m not really sure either. I was Hades.

I had done enough damage to the reputation of the establishment with my preposterous orders so I sought to rectify that by announcing, “I will try a new food.”

This was met with shock and horror and consternation. Protestations! Could this be?

“Tell me a food to eat on this table and I will try it,” I said to my friend’s sister.

She selected lamb chops.

Righty-o. Nice and bland.

Here’s the thing: lamb chops are sooo incredibly far from anything I would consider putting in my mouth. For one thing, they look nothing like anything I eat. For another thing, let’s be real, you wouldn’t eat something called cute puppy strips and when I think of lambs, I think adorable, white, fluffy friends.

Nevertheless, I had agreed to try it and the other options – some spinachy plate and other saucy items – were even less appealing. So I ate a lamb chop. And you know what? It was good. It was salty, not too sticky or stretchy, I liked it. I would try it again. It didn't even bother me that much that it's like a cute, fluffy lamb chop.

My taste buds still get overwhelmed so after eating one lamb chop, I was pretty much finished for the night, but I ate a lamb chop! My most exotic, most surprising, most successful new food experience since fried calamari in 2006. Huzzah!

As I left the restaurant, its Greek-all-the-way owner bade me farewell with a Greek-all-the-way, “Good night…Mr. White.”