I was a picky eater as a kid, which
meant I hated pretty much everything. Vegetables? They reminded me of
freshly cut grass. Gristle in beef had to be surgically sliced out
before I chewed a piece. Mushrooms grew on dead things and that made
them evil in my eyes. Fresh mash potatoes with any lumps in them
would make me gag. So dinner time around a table was real fun at
nights. Part of it was my natural stubbornness as a child, the other
part was the fact my Mom was Irish and could not cook as most Irish
can't.
As a kid, I swear your senses are far
more attuned than an adults. You can pick up on differences far
better than they can.
One night, while we were eating
hamburgers, I started to slow down as I was eating mine, something
was off but I couldn't place my finger on it just yet. I would
nibble smaller and smaller pieces, to avoid whatever toxin it was I
ingesting and kept having a nagging memory of this sensation. I swore I
have had it before, but what was it? I started to mention it but my
Dad, who believed that Might makes Right, shot my concerns down.
“Whadaya talking about? It's
GOOD...now eat it!”
All four of us were at the table, Dad,
Mom, my brother and I. It then hit me, I figured out what I was
tasting. I abruptly get up, march to the refrigerator and open it. I
find the crisper and I reach in and yank out a bag of green, fuzzy
oranges.
“I KNEW it! I KNEW it! I knew there
was something wrong with the burgers! They taste like MOLD!”
I was holding the bag oranges up like
an enemy's severed head, victorious in that I was RIGHT.
The oranges had gone bad, real bad,
ready to join the enemy lines and they were slightly perfuming all
the other foods in the fridge with that mildew scent.
My Mom and Dad, never looked up. My
brother, who never believed half of what I said then shot a sneering
look to the both of them. I sat down in triumph...and disgust. I was
about ten then and when I did sit down, I burned a look at my Dad
like a laser. He never returned it.
As for my pickiness now? It's gone. I
am a goat now. I'll eat pretty much anything.
But these...
****
Vallee's Steak House. There used to be
on Airport Road in Warwick, perhaps another south of Boston on Route
3 heading north from Plymouth. Anyways, my Dad had become enthralled
with it and we ended up eating there more than a few times.
It was OK. I liked steak at times and
their food overall was decent. But once again, my parents
telling me what I should eat would grate me.
After the end of one dinner, my Dad
chimes in with, “Hey, They got that blueberry pie again! Let's get
that!” I said I just wanted ice cream. At the time I thought
blueberries sucked. Don't forget, I hated everything then.
My Dad says: “This is the best
blueberry pie you can get anywhere and you can have ice cream any
time you want. Get the blueberry!”
My Mom defended me with, “Oh
Richard...let him have the ice cream.” My Dad relented and when he
got his slice, he had to rub it in. “Maureen, this is the BEST
blueberry pie on Earth. I swear there's none better, Mmmm Mmmm!” I
knew he was doing this for my benefit, as he was a lousy actor at
times and his little performance was awful. My Mom didn't get a
slice, preferring to drink coffee instead, but she had one bite of my
Dad's pie.
Around 11pm that night, I heard my Dad
vomiting violently into the toilet. My Mom who was at the bathroom
door said loud enough, so I managed to hear it cleanly:
“Richard! It was the pie! I could
tell there was something wrong with it when I tasted yours!
Trying to talk through the chunks and
coughing, my Dad says: “Why the HELL didn't you tell me?”
Good ol' Mom. She gives a great answer.
“Richard! I thought you'd jump down my throat if I criticized your
choice like Ronnie did!”'
More puking ensues. I'm lying in my
bed with a smile ear to ear.
I'm on her side!
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