Food Sensitivities

Food allergies seem to be running rampant these days. I was blissfully ignorant of many people’s plights until I heard about children who would die if they found themselves anywhere near a lowly peanut. Strawberries, onions, wheat gluten, soy, any food item has the potential to kill somebody somewhere, it’s amazing. What’s annoying is the general populous avoiding these items like it’s fashionable. Take the gluten-free fad going on right now. You simply cannot convince me that so many are cursed with Celiac disease. You just can’t, I refuse to believe it. This isn’t a new diet craze, such avoidances are necessary for a person’s very existence! Trust me, I speak from experience.

Traumatizing childhoods are also pretty common (popular), and lucky me, I get to combine it with my food “sensitivity.” Two birds with one stone, if you will. I was a picky eater with a roller-coaster appetite. Each morning my mother would ask me if this was an eating day or not. Eating days were days during which I would gorge myself on only one type of food, rotating favorites were macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and the usual kid fare. On non-eating days I wouldn’t touch a crumb. At first this concerned her, but my pediatrician assured her that as long as I was getting everything I needed over the course of a week, I’d be fine. Consumption schedules aside, there were a few items that I would refuse even on the most voracious of eating days. Okay, more than “a few,” but that’s beside the point. The absolute worst was the dreaded, breaded, would-much-rather-be-beheaded… stuffing. Stuffing, dressing, whatever you call it, you know what I mean. Stovetop, if you want to get specific. That shit doesn’t deserve to grace the table on any day other than Thanksgiving, but sometimes we had it as a side dish at random times throughout the year. My mother has always loved stuffing, and sometimes I truly don’t understand her.

In addition to my finicky ways, I was impressively stubborn. My spirit animal must be a mule because once I’d decided not to do something God himself would not have been able to sway me otherwise. Unfortunately for me, my father was the type who believed you had to finish everything on your plate. When I was five years old, the three of us were sitting down to dinner, and there was stuffing on my plate. Maybe he’d had a really bad day at work, maybe he just felt like being an ass, either way Dad was extremely bothered by the pokes and prods at my dinner and the noticeable lack of any real eating going on. His urgings for me to eat grew in intensity, fueled by my refusal to comply, and kept building until everything came to a head, forever changing the course of my culinary life.

With lightning quick speed and amazing efficiency he grabbed my fork with his right hand, with his left he gripped the back of my head, and without any hesitation or regard for my safety he began forcing huge forkfuls of what was now lukewarm stuffing into my mouth. Repulsion and panic overcame me and I promptly vomited everything back onto my plate. Steeling himself to my misery, he continued eating his own meal. When the force of my glare became too much to handle, he growled at me, “Don’t look at me, look at your food,” and my eyes dropped to my plate. When he had cleared his own plate he told me that I wasn’t going anywhere until I finished my food. My mother went along with this because she was trying to be the dutiful wife back then, and so they both left me there, at the table, by myself.

Two hours later crickets chirped loudly outside, and fireflies glowed beautifully in the dark. The air was cool and smelled sweet. Or so I assume. I don’t actually know because I was still sitting at that damned table staring at the regurgitated remains of what was once supposedly considered food. I was finally told to go to my room, which I did happily. Being sent to my room was never really a punishment, as I enjoyed drawing or quietly playing by myself in there for hours at a time. Within the hour I was even awarded dessert out of pity and guilt, and subconsciously my father’s will bowed down before my own to acknowledge its superior strength. That’s what I like to tell myself, anyway. At the end of a long, bloody battle the losing side should always present the victors with ice cream, it just makes sense to me. As I savored the cool, creamy taste of success, I knew I had won. I’ve never had food shoveled into my face again. The damage, however, had already been done.

To this day even the smell of stuffing causes the saliva to build in my mouth, forcing me to swallow rapidly and tamp down the nausea that overcomes me. I can’t walk past it in the grocery store without cringing. I have never made peace with the stuff. Alright, so it doesn’t really pose any threat to my health like a legitimate food allergy, but it killed a part of my soul. I no longer stay in touch with my dad, for other reasons, and stuffing is only allowed near me on Thanksgiving. I just make sure it’s at the far end of the table, even better if it hides behind one of the other dishes. We all have our hang-ups. If a stuffing-free fad ever sweeps the nation, I will whole-heartedly support it. Sorry, Stovetop.

Not really.

The Reluctant Spaniard

When you look at me, within 3.2 seconds you will figure out that I’m Spanish. It’s quite obvious, it’s in my facial structure, my hair, my skin tone, and my ass. It is not, however, in my ankles, my hands, or my teeth. What you will not see is that I’m actually half Spanish, half German. No one ever stops me to ask if I’m German. That’s okay, I can’t see it either, but it’s there. Apparently, what kind of Spanish you are matters, especially to other people of Hispanic origin. Cuban, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Peruvian, Colombian, Spain Spanish. This is important, and it seems to aggravate people when they can’t identify me. This is later eclipsed by the rage that floods their faces when they find out that I do not speak a word of Spanish. “But you should! Is good language!” Yes, I am a disgrace to my (half) people. There’s a good chance that there would be riots in front of my home if these same individuals learned of the lengths I once went to in trying to hide that very heritage. I mean, really.

There is a girl that I used to be extremely afraid of. You’ve seen her a thousand times, I know it. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, one curl cemented to each of her temples; enormous hoop earrings dangle from her ears; black eyeliner doubles as lip liner, serving as a dark barrier that barely contains the blood red lipstick staining her mouth; tight clothing tries its darnedest to cover her curves, but ultimately fails because it’s two sizes too small; her feet are either squeezed into cheap platform shoes or are resting comfortably in overpriced sneakers. You’ve seen her at places like the mall, but you’re probably most familiar with her arguing with her boyfriend in a parking lot with her posse of clones surrounding her, bobbling their heads and adding in clever quips that would make an English teacher cringe.

In my teens and early twenties, I did everything in my power not to be this girl. My efforts often went unnoticed by the kind of boys who usually go for such creatures. I was perpetually invisible to the blond-haired, blue-eyed dreamboats I fantasized about while dodging advances from guys who wholeheartedly believed that rap stars were gods and found the sight of two (or more) girls fighting over them to be quite amusing, possibly even a turn-on. I stopped wearing hoop earrings of all sizes, I shunned lipstick, I straightened my naturally curly hair daily, I avoided the sun like a vampire, I listened to heavy rock music, and in high school I made sure that I took French to fill my foreign language requirement. I exhibited an amazing sense of control when I did NOT slap a guy when he called me J-Lo. He saw it as a compliment, I saw it as an insult.

I may or may not have even secretly envied Michael Jackson’s lightened skin. I won’t confirm or deny it, I’m just sayin’.

Image is extremely important to you when you’re young. Either I don’t have the energy to sustain that degree of indignation and paranoia, or I’ve simply grown up. Spanish women are beautiful, fiery creatures that many men adore, even some of those blond ones I was pining for ten years ago (I prefer brunettes now anyway). I’ve made peace with my hair and let it curl all it wants. I’ll wear any earrings I like. I’m even considering reinstating the accent mark I removed from my last name when I “Americanized” it so long ago. Self-acceptance is supposed to be healthy, or something.

I’ll be damned if I ever learn that language, though!