Ew, ew, ew!

One promised adventure for this blog was what my white bread counter parts would eat in India.

My Mom has been gung-ho to try new foods and tastes, the issue with her is the spice (hot).  “No spice” to the South Indian waiter literally translates to “three alarm fire” to my mom.  As funny as it is to see her choke and cough waving her hands in front of her face sputtering “yogurt, yogurt!” it’s also sad that such a willing participant has to miss out on such good tastes.

My Dad has been a reluctant taster.  I know he would love at least half the food if he would give it an honest try and judge with his tongue instead of his eyes and brain.  The night we got the butter chicken he actually admitted to liking it, and commented that it was kinda like eating chili. (duh!)  Still he likes to play it safe with sandwiches at Subway, or with items like pasta or fish and chips at restaurants.  He thinks he’s adventurous because there is added spice to these dishes (like all food in the South) and he actually finishes his food.  My Dad’s face saver on this trip is Sally, and he’s not afraid to point it out, over and over again. 

Being eleven and precious gives Sally the luxury of saying “Ew, ew, ew!” to anything and everything on the menu or on the table.  The infuriating thing about it is I completely understand where she is coming from and how she feels because I was her.  I know the emotion that takes over when the food ordered is not EXACTLY what was in mind. 

The buffet food at the Chennai breakfast wasn’t so bad because we could point at things to explain and let her eyes do the judging.  Ordering off the menu was a different story.  All we could do was hypothesize what the dish would be like.  When Sally’s food came, if it was a disappointment Sally would make sure everyone knew it wasn’t her fault, Auntie had said it would be EXACTLY like such and such and it wasn’t.  How she’d get from “I think this might be something along the lines of the noodles you eat at my house” to “this is EXACTLY the noodles you eat at my house” must be lost in the translation from adult to preteen speech.

The most annoyingly funny meals were the “white people” meals we ordered for Sally.  On the way to Salem from Chennai we stopped at the fancy hotel for lunch.  Scrawny little Sally decided she would order the “Chicken Cesar Salad” AND the “Crusted Chicken Dinner”.  The enjoyable part was my Mother ordered the exact same meal so we actually had a control subject for the meal. 

Somehow the Cesar salad was too “spicy” for Sally to eat (Mom said it tasted like regular Cesar salad with the exception that it was iceberg lettuce instead of romaine) so my Dad told her to pick the chicken out and eat it and leave the rest.  Sally did okay, but there was one big piece of chicken left she couldn’t bring herself to eat because it had touched the parsley.  The PARSLEY!  Okay, I totally get the runny touching things, I still won’t give Poohpers ketchup because I think it’s disgusting and don’t want her to touch me with ketchup hands because then I will need a shower.  And if someone puts a tomato on my burger and it juices on my bun that’s a problem, but PARSLEY!  That’s like saying I can’t eat it because it touched a clean napkin!

Don’t worry, she ordered an entree too, there will be something for her to eat…

NOT!  So the crusted chicken was a chicken breast with fries.  First ew ew was the fact that it came with vegetables (I gallantly scooped them up onto my plate, then stomach).  The second, minor offense was that the fries came with black pepper on them (scoff!)  But the real offender was that the breaded chicken breast came with, oh my, beyond imaginable, a BONE!  Suddenly the entire meal was contaminated like a piece of chicken with parsley on it!  Even the earlier desired melted cheese on top of the chicken became like a toxic substance destroying every last inch of the meal.

I personally am of the mind that you can starve if you have food issues; I have done this countless times myself.  I know Sally has more granola bars in her suitcase than are stocked at the grocery store, so I personally would let this go.  A hungry, disappointed tummy is enough punishment in my mind, but for my parents that grew up poor, any food waste is sacrilege.  My Grandmother even lives by the slogan “better belly burst than good food spoil”.  So my Dad spent the last half of the meal leaning across the table scraping toxic cheese off of the offending chicken in a desperate attempt at consumption for Sally. I knew only too well that at this point, the chicken was contaminated far beyond consumption.