By: Sarah Thompson
Once, I found myself at my grandmother’s kitchen table, staring down a plate of meatballs and rice. “You won’t leave until you eat them,” she declared firmly. I sat there, tears streaming down my face, refusing to budge. Hours ticked by, filled with my muffled cries, and despite my protests, there was no escape. No drinks to wash them down, no ketchup to mask the taste. Eventually, I forced those dry bites down, one agonizing morsel at a time. This moment remains etched in my memory as one of the most vivid encounters with food during my childhood.
In my family, no one ever forced me to eat what I didn’t want. They offered various dishes—steak, tacos, even prunes—but I steadfastly declined to taste any of them. My mother, understanding my pickiness, would shrug and prepare a pot of water for pasta. While everyone else enjoyed cheesesteaks or pork and sauerkraut, I was content with buttered noodles or bright-orange Kraft mac and cheese. Thankfully, our family meals included green beans and corn, along with a robust veggie tray, ensuring I still received decent nutrition.
One day, as a joke, my aunt claimed that Kraft had gone out of business. My reaction was dramatic—I howled in despair. I don’t think they anticipated such an intense response. But that mac and cheese was my comfort food, my savior.
I thrived on pasta because my beloved grandmother never forced my mother, the youngest child, to eat what she didn’t want. Following her lead, my mom extended the same courtesy to me. Consequently, my childhood diet consisted mainly of chicken, with zero seafood—the smell of shrimp cooking was enough to make me feel nauseous. Cabbage was another no-go, ruling out sauerkraut and many soups. In fact, I had a deep aversion to soup. When my family visited Taco Bell, they would detour to McDonald’s first just for my fries—nothing but fries, as I had no interest in fast-food meat. Even Cheerios were off the table for me.
As I transitioned into college, I was initially the chicken-finger-and-fries type. However, I also desired to appear more cultured, so I decided to try steak for the first time. To my surprise, once I trimmed off every bit of fat, I actually enjoyed it. My friends introduced me to new flavors like feta cheese and avocados, which were not available in my small town. I even discovered that I could enjoy tacos made with chicken rather than the beef I had always avoided. Slowly but surely, I began to develop a more adventurous palate.
Admittedly, I still steer clear of seafood—something about fish gives me the creeps, not to mention the frightening arthropods. Yet, I can now savor a hamburger like any other American. My mother nearly applauded when she witnessed my growth in food preferences.
I never became spoiled, nor did I expect someone to cater to my every whim. My husband, a fantastic cook, often prepares meals that don’t suit my taste—think haggis, not hamburgers. However, during these times, he graciously offers me a salad or a plate of nachos. I appreciate this gesture, but I don’t rely on it. I often volunteer to prepare my own meals, and I’m grateful when he declines my offer (his vinaigrette is far superior to mine). Still, my mother will forever hold the title of chief noodle cooker.
Nourishment was never an issue for me. I consistently ate vegetables, thanks to my grandmother, who made sure they were available at every meal. While I might have benefited from more protein and calcium—especially since I wouldn’t drink plain milk unless it was swimming with cereal—we kept our pantry stocked with Nestle Quik throughout the 1980s. I survived, thrived, and grew strong.
Had my family forced me to eat what I detested, I likely would have stubbornly refused food altogether. I took four long hours to choke down those dreaded meatballs, and such coercion might have led to malnutrition. The idea of a “three-bite rule”? If they had made me try seafood, I would have definitely lost my lunch right there at the table.
I recognize that buttered noodles and Kraft mac and cheese might not be the healthiest options, which is why my children have alternatives like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, apples, or bananas. Provided I don’t have to spend time cooking, they can choose those over our family meal. They rarely take us up on it, but they never go hungry, and we avoid food battles altogether.
Aside from the Meatball Incident, I can’t recall any food-related disputes from my childhood. If I was hungry, I could always grab a banana. My kids have the same freedom; they can always reach for a banana or a slice of bread.
Ultimately, let’s put an end to food wars. They simply aren’t worth the stress. I survived a childhood marked by extreme pickiness—where even lightly toasted white bread was too much for me. Yet, I thrived. I was active and athletic, riding horses and competing in track, which involved running six miles daily. Surprisingly, I didn’t eat my first sub sandwich until I turned 15.
I am incredibly thankful my mother never engaged in food battles with me. My pickiness stemmed from a dislike of strong flavors and certain textures, and many children share similar experiences. So, let’s leave them be. Perhaps whip up some buttered noodles instead.
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Summary
The author reflects on her experiences as a picky eater, highlighting how her mother’s understanding shaped her relationship with food. Through anecdotes, she emphasizes the importance of avoiding food battles and allowing children to explore their preferences. Ultimately, she advocates for a nurturing approach to eating that fosters healthy habits without pressure.