Why you should cut us “picky eaters” some slack

Not once in my life have I ever received the compliment, “You’re a good eater.” That’s high praise in the South, but it’s also praise that is reserved for people who will eat just about anything put in front of them. That certainly doesn’t describe me. I’m what Southerners call “a picky eater.” That means I don’t seek out food I can’t recognize or pronounce.

For years I thought I was a “picky eater” because I was picked on by others at the table for my refusal to try new things or old things cooked a new way.

“You don’t know what you’re missing!” my Mother would admonish.

“How do you know you won’t like it if you won’t try it?” I heard that almost every day.

“What are you gonna do when you’re at somebody else’s house and they serve this?” my Grandmother would sometimes ask. I never said it out loud, but I always thought, “I don’t have friends whose family would eat this sort of thing.”

The one good thing about being a “picky eater” is that it was easy for me to determine, without even tasting a food, whether or not I would like it. If I didn’t like the color, texture, smell, size, or name I could dismiss it without a second thought. For years my motto was, “If you can’t fry it, I won’t try it.”

Oatmeal and Cream of Wheat were about the only meals I ate on a regular basis that weren’t fried. Good thing we always had bacon on the side!

My love of simple food caught up with me once I left the South. I was 25 and newly married the first time I left Georgia to live in another state. Although it was neighboring Florida, it was South Florida, which is practically its own country.

The entire time we were driving there I worried about whether or not I’d starve in a land where they don’t cover everything in gravy. I had heard rumors that spices were not only common, but encouraged. I didn’t see why anybody needed more than pepper to give their food a real “kick.”
Ralph wasn’t nearly as nervous about the move as I was, but then he’s a “good eater” and had even been to Europe as a teenager.

Shortly after our move, I made my first business trip outside the South. I went to New York City for a week-long IBM-sponsored class. I was so excited! I couldn’t wait to experience a real city with yellow cabs and brown air.

My excitement lasted until supper the first evening. I went with several classmates to an upscale restaurant near Central Park. As soon as I opened the menu, I knew I was in trouble. I didn’t recognize anything. They had fish, and though the double name – Mahi-Mahi – made me smile, I was pretty sure it wasn’t as good as catfish. They didn’t even offer it fried.

Other menu items included what I call “vowel foods” (linguini, manicotti, oreganata, bruschetta). In the world where I grew up, all the best foods ended in consonants: chickeN, corN, roasT beeF, shrimP, beanS, squasH and even haM. I was skeptical that the food in this place would be edible. I became instantly nervous. Here I was staring at a menu that might as well have been in another language and the only thing I knew for sure was that every item was expensive. My daddy would have said, “They’re mighty proud of their food, aren’t they?”

Things continued to go downhill as soon as the waiter arrived to take our order. He suggested we start with “a delightful radicchio and arugula salad with a citrus vinaigrette.” Huh?

I recognized the word “salad” so I had some idea of what he was recommending, but until that moment, I didn’t know that salad came in more than one variety. Iceberg lettuce was the only kind of salad I had ever eaten and it was always topped with cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes and Thousand Island dressing, which my mother made using mayonnaise and ketchup.

Radicchio sounded like something you’d have surgically removed. Afterwards, you could go to Arugula to rest up. How I longed for fat-laden iceberg!

It’s easy to feel intimidated when faced with an unfamiliar situation. Here I was with strangers in a strange city in a strange restaurant ordering from a menu of strange choices. (I have always suspected that the guy who created the television show, “Fear Factor” once found himself in a similar situation and decided to capitalize on it.)

I truly feared that my tablemates might see me as unsophisticated, or worse yet, “a picky eater,” so I smiled at the waiter and said, “Oh yes, that does sound delicious! I’ll have the salad.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt I had betrayed my Southernness.

Soon, I was faced with a plate of mixed greens that came in shades of green and red, with tiny corn cobs and sprouts. It looked like something my father would have weeded out of the garden and fed to the horses. I knew I wouldn’t like it. No salad should look like it’s made by Crayola.

I managed to choke it down before my fish with two names arrived. To my surprise, the Mahi-Mahi was actually good even without a crunchy batter. It was also the first time I had eaten fish without hushpuppies, though I wouldn’t recommend going that far in the future just to save a reputation. The steamed beans could have used another hour or two in the water or at the very least a little bacon fat, but I managed to keep them down.

As I lay in bed that night, I felt a wave of emotions. Excitement because I was finally in “the big city” I had dreamt of visiting. Pride because I conquered my fear of eating strange food in front of strange people. Wistfulness because I wanted to be back on the farm eating mushy vegetables with fried chicken. Anticipation because I wondered what other strange foods or customs I might encounter while traveling. Relief that I could try new and different things and live to tell about it.

Since that trip, I’ve traveled extensively and have eaten all kinds of foreign foods. I can’t say that I have enjoyed every meal, but I do know this: those who aren’t “picky eaters” will probably never have the same sense of accomplishment that I feel simply from trying to be a “good eater.”

Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition is cruel and unusual punishment

I hate February. It’s not the month itself so much as what happens during the shortest, often coldest month of the year. Catalogs featuring women’s swimsuits begin arriving in the mail. You can’t get away from them. Ironically, the one I dread the most isn’t even addressed to me. It’s the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, featuring extraordinarily beautiful women posed in all kinds of unnatural positions while showing a variety of dental floss custom made for their bodies. No other woman on earth can wear these swimsuits. This must make the models very sad. I can’t help but notice that they’re all pouting.

The mail box is full of catalogs advertising swimsuits that, if you hurry, can arrive by early March, just as the snow begins to melt. For just less than the cost of a monthly car payment, women all over the world can order swimsuits that promise to hide “problem areas” and reshape their bodies into those of goddesses. “Unbelievably flexible!” screams one ad. “Dries twice as fast as an ordinary suit!” declares another. My personal favorite is the “Tan Thru® Suit that makes it possible to wear a one-piece swimsuit, yet still get tan all over as if you tanned nude. Apparently, the Italians have discovered a way to create swimwear that humans can’t see through, but the sun can. Clearly, they’re still trying to make up for that whole Fiat Spider joke they played on us years ago. No matter. I don’t intend to order a swimsuit from any catalog, despite the attractive promises.

For me, shopping for a swimsuit is a once-a-decade activity that involves spending an entire day at the mall. I always start at a large department store, usually searching the racks for black or navy suits because I became convinced years ago that those are slimming colors. I stretch, moan and curse as I pull each one on and off, wondering how it’s possible that I wear one size in pants, but three sizes larger in a swimsuit. The three-way mirrors make it easy to reject each suit as unflattering. Like most women, I always turn around and look to see if my butt looks too big. It always does. I’m not sure why this matters, since few people will ever actually see it. I wear a large shirt or some type of cover-up over my suit when I’m not in the water. And when I’m out of the water, I usually am sitting in a lounge chair.

Every time I try on swimsuits I admonish myself for being the fattest, most out-of-shape person at the mall and I swear I’ll lose at least 30 pounds before I actually buy a new swimsuit. Then I leave the dressing area and head straight to the cookie kiosk for a chocolate covered double-fudge delight and a Diet Coke® while I ponder where else to shop for a beautiful suit of microfiber that will simultaneously slim my thighs, hide my stomach and make my breasts look perky.

One day, while trying on swimsuits in a department dressing room store, I was staring at myself in the mirror when suddenly a little blonde haired girl about three years old popped her head under the door. I don’t know who was more startled, but I just said, “Hi there!” and smiled. She pulled the rest of her body into the dressing room, stood up and said, “You look pretty.”

I don’t know what possessed me to respond the way I did, but I looked down at her and said, “Which one would you pick – the black one or the blue one?”

“Blue!” she screamed. “It’s pretty!”

I was wearing the blue one.

About that time, her mother began yelling her name. “Kaitlin! Where are you? You get in here right now!”

And as quickly as she appeared, she disappeared.

Within moments I purchased the blue one, based solely on the approval of a pint sized stranger.

It was the only swimsuit I wore that summer. My daughters told me they liked it. My husband didn’t ask if I planned to return it, so I figured he liked it as well. Every time I put that swimsuit on, I smiled at the thought of Kaitlin telling me she “It’s pretty!” She has no idea that her little opinion would have such a big influence.

Maybe some day when she is in her forties – or older – and feeling fat and insecure, some little girl will appear to tell her that she’s fine just the way she is. We all need Kaitlins – not just in our dressing rooms, but in our psyches and hearts… because she’s right… we’re fine just the way we are.

Hearing aids don’t care how old or young you are

Lately, a lot of my Boomer friends have been complaining that they seem to be losing their hearing. Many of them seem too vain to check into getting hearing aids, so I’ve been on a mission to show them that seeking help for a hearing deficiency is no different from buying glasses when you can’t see well. For me, being “hearing impaired” has nothing to do with getting older.

I’ve been very hard of hearing almost as long as I can remember. The first time my parents realized it was a serious enough problem to seek medical help, I was 13 and entering high school. They took me to an audiologist in Brunswick, GA, who was associated with Easter Seals. He confirmed that my hearing wasn’t normal and suggested I wear a hearing aid.

Back then, in 1970, hearing aids came in a flesh tone and one size fit all. I wore it behind my right ear for about two weeks and decided I’d rather be deaf. It was uncomfortable and as far as I could tell it didn’t help at all. Everything was louder, but it wasn’t any easier to understand.

 “Give it a chance!” my parents encouraged. “You just need to get used to it.”

 I didn’t see why I should have to accommodate something that was supposed to help me. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I quickly discarded the aid and began to find other ways to compensate for my hearing loss. I became quite good at lip reading. In fact, I’ve carried on entire conversations with people whose voice I never heard. Little did I realize I was developing a pattern as a young teen that would become both an asset and a liability over the years.

On the plus side, I was able to use my real deafness to practice selective hearing. I could avoid arguments, ignore requests and plead innocence with the simple phrase, “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.” Of course, the down side was that I missed a lot of whispered jokes, compliments, warnings and even criticisms I never responded to.

When I turned 40, my eyesight began to wane, so lip reading became more difficult. Now I had the combined problem of not only not hearing, but not knowing what I was not hearing.

In 2003, I found myself working in an environment that was primarily male, I knew I had no choice but to take action. My hearing loss is in the lower ranges, so men are especially hard to hear. Since I was spending my days dealing with men, I became more and more concerned about what I might be missing. I found myself in constant fear that they might be saying I was “hot” and I was answering “That’s just not true!” because I believed they were calling me a “snot.” 

So when I saw an ad in the Sunday paper promoting customized digital hearing aids, I decided it was time to act. Three days later I found myself sitting in an anechoic chamber with earphones on repeating words and word patterns on request. I also lifted my index finger whenever I heard beeps and before I knew it, a computer spit out a graph that showed in red and blue just how deaf I was. Not surprisingly, the results indicated I was even deafer than I realized. I would need two hearing aids. 

It has been two years now since the day that I picked them up and boy, has my world changed. I now have super hearing. I’m hearing all kinds of things for the first time and understanding other things I thought I had heard correctly. It’s both a blessing and a curse. I’ve been wondering why anyone would want to hear some of the things I’ve only recently become aware of, like jets flying overhead, or neighborhood dogs barking. 

For the most part, hearing turns out to be a good thing, but it has its downside as well.

Now I find myself facing what I call “retro-mortification.” It’s the realization of understanding how very wrong I’ve been about a lot of things, based solely on the way I heard them for so many years. People were either too kind to correct me or perhaps they thought I was unbalanced and didn’t want to risk agitating me.

For instance,

I’ve discovered:

–  My neighbors are actually named Mick and Jean, not Dick and Jane, which I’ve called them for 10 years, all the while laughing behind their backs at how embarrassing it must be to be named for reading primers. Now I understand why they never even smiled when I’d ask, “Where’s your dog, Spot?” Turns out his name is Hops, which seems more appropriate for a three-legged dog.

–  Farts CAN be heard. All these years I’ve thought I was discreetly “tooting” on occasion only to now learn I’ve thundered all over the country. The first time I really heard one I immediately blushed and no one was even around to see it. My mind raced to remember who I might have unintentionally offended since the early 70’s. Imagine trying to recall each fart for over 30 years. It’s just not possible. I’ll let it go.

–  I need to ask forgiveness of Credence Clearwater Revival. They were a hugely popular band when I was in high school and their biggest hit was “Bad Moon Rising.” For 30+ years, I’ve been singing “There’s a bathroom on the right,” all the while thinking, “those are the dumbest lyrics I’ve ever heard, but it sure is a catchy tune.”

–  Nobody really calls me during Law and Order, even though I used to answer the phone during every episode. Apparently, whenever the cops are at the police station, there’s always a ringing phone in the background. Obviously, this is supposed to make the scenario seem more real. It’s a little too real, if you ask me.

–  I now “get” Cialis commercials. For three years I’ve been wondering why there was a need to advertise reptile dysfunction. I’ve thought it odd that we saw nary a snake nor lizard in a single commercial. More puzzling, though, was the very fact that reptiles could have a dysfunction and anyone would care, never mind dance around at the idea that a medication could apparently cure their problem.

Each day brings a new discovery. I’m determined to stick with the hearing aids this time because I realize that even though in some ways the world may seem less interesting now, it also seems more “new” somehow too. And with everything that has been going on in the world recently, I’d say new is good.