Following the Great Lima Bean Debacle of ‘95, at the tender age of 7, I solemnly swore to myself that when I had reached that mythical pinnacle of human achievement (AKA “Adulthood”) I would never again eat food that I hated. This embargo generally included such categories as anything that had “-meal” in its name, like oatmeal, cornmeal, or any other plant made into a porridge-like concoction.
I remember many a meal my poor mother prepared that I turned my nose up at, but then choked down after learning that there was no other food to be had, and yes, I would starve if I refused to eat it. Where my friends were eating such nutrition-rich breakfasts as Chocolate Coco Puffs and Frosted Flakes and (for all I knew) Cheetos deep-fat fried in oil, rolled in powdered sugar and soaked in chocolate milk, I was forced to gum down tasteless oatmeal reminiscent of the toothsome texture of phlegm. Oh the injustice of it all!
Reaching adulthood, though, came with many disappointments and hardships, not the least of these my inability to eat anything sweet before noon without feeling sick for the rest of the day. Gone are my youthful dreams of donuts and Lucky Charms for breakfast, and in their place I find myself voluntarily gumming down oatmeal, and have even developed a taste for farina, so much so that I buy it in bulk at WinCo.
I’m not a health-nut, by any stretch of the imagination, but my desire for all things deep-fat-fried is definitely tempered by my desire to NOT look like a beached and bloated whale.
