I’m 26-years old and I still don’t eat the crust.
- business luncheons
- train stations
- bridal brunches (and most wedding events, including weddings)
- restaurants with a Zagat Food Score of 25 or above
More explicitly, I’ve been told this is a childish habit and that I am Queen Bee of the Picky Eaters Club. In fact, when asked why I don’t eat the crust, the honest answer of, “I just don’t like it,” is seldom good enough to end the conversation. This perplexes me.
I actually know a (though I’d never say this to his face) rather intellegent man who swears that “not liking” a certain food is a lie. He believes unapologetically that there is not a single food or taste that a person cannot coax him or herself into liking and because of this, holds fast to the notion that there is nothing he could not (eventually) enjoy. Like any oppressed picky eater, upon hearing this, I immediately tried to think of the most disgusting food concoctions I could use to test this hypothesis. The best I could come up with was applesauce smothered grits mixed with malt vinegar and split pea soup, garnished, of course, with full-fat whipped cream.
This got me thinking about love.
I would totally trust you to pick out my future husband. You just… you get me, she’d say.
Could I learn to love them?
Could I really learn to radically love ANYONE?
Let me know your thoughts in the comments or via e-mail.