This is me–your self-proclaimed culinary simpleton.
Born in one of the least gastrically interesting countries in the world, I was raised on meatballs and potatoes for roughly two decades until taking my first, cautious steps outside the Scandinavian peninsula; at age eighteen, I found myself transplanted into a culture of grits, sweet tea, and fried everythings. To my surprise, my rude awakening to the multitude of foods out there caused my tunnel-visioned taste spectrum to widen.
During my childhood, however, I was particularly stubborn. With the combination of liking a very particular set of things and being vastly opposed to even thinking about considering trying new things, I lived for the longest in waiting for that moment when I would finally enjoy grown-up-people-food. Until that moment arrived, I did everything in my power to keep myself from ingesting anything remotely healthy–my family (to my burning humiliation) quite enjoys retelling the story of when they discovered what can best be described as an herbarium of broccoli underneath the cushion of my chair in the dining room. That’s right, I am not exaggerating my own pickiness.
On top of my own, hesitant nature, I am also blessed with a digestive system that was probably fished out of the bargain bin of my parents’ gene pool (thank you, dad). This effectively means that consuming anything the slightest bit spicy–or, for that matter, tasty–crashes my system and forces my body to reboot. I promise not to go into details.
My personal economy and preference currently limits me to a fifteen-meal plan, which somewhat restricts my chances of documenting every single meal. On the other hand, it also creates fifteen opportunities per week of experiencing something truly revolting.
All that remains is to make sure I have the guts to request a ladleful of whatever is being served.
