I will always be young at heart, but I’m a stodgy old grandma in stomach.
I should know–I just spent the past week with my grandma and spent every mealtime sitting side by side shoveling the same pile of the mushiest, creamiest, dissolveable-iest edible stuff into our mouths. With matching chopsticks and purple down jackets, I might add. (We’re pretty cute like that.)
A huge part of this uncanny resemblance is that, since I started grad school, I have become a weirdly obsessive “texture person.”
I have somehow always labored under the impression that most people outgrow their pickiness about food as maturity sets in. Either I missed that train or boarded on the wrong platform and am now hurtling full-steam ahead in the opposite direction, because while I have learned to love certain foods I wouldn’t touch as a kid (e.g. eggplant, mushrooms, watermelon), I have also become that person at the restaurant. You know, the one who insists that you order anything for the table (“no really, totally up to you, I’ll be fine!”) and then sits there picking at the steamed broccoli for the rest of the night because she doesn’t particularly like the curry, avocado salad, meat, and/or banana cream pie you ordered.
Probably the strangest aspect of this retrogression, atavism, degeneration, or whatever you want to call it, is my penchant for creamy things. Set a huge bowl of peanuts in front of me and I might pop one, just to be polite. Plop a jar of peanut butter down, on the other hand, and I’ll ask you nicely for a spoon–along with an affidavit signature confirming that you won’t press charges if you don’t get your PB back. Like, ever.
Garbanzo beans? Eh. Hummus? Step aside, bub.
Carrots? Fine, I’ll eat them. Creamy carrot peanut soup?… Read more