The Picky Eater
When it comes to food, I’m basically a toddler. In most other areas of life I like to think I’ve transitioned fully into adulthood; I’ve had the same job for twenty-three years, I make sure the trash is at the road every Tuesday, and have a wife and three kids I gladly take responsibility for.
But I’m not going to eat something that looks gross.
Mostly I don’t like things that seem to be congealed. Casseroles and pastas are best left alone. Soups? Forget it. I have zero interest in drinking my food. I do love pizza, which some see as a conflict, but my habits are meant to be accepted not understood. I can’t explain it either.
Folks often object that I’m missing out. As if a life filled with BBQ, fried catfish, and steak is not a life lived filthy rich in food choices. All I’m saying is the Bible says to find contentment; it’s not my fault the rest of yall can’t be satisfied with the simple things God has given you.
One time my Nana placed a SPAM sandwich on the table in front of me and my brother. I must have objected to meat from a can and her response was your typical, “Well, you’re not leaving this table until that food is gone.”
I didn’t know what to do; I knew she was serious about her line in the sand, but I also knew I was not capable of consuming such an unholy piece of alleged meat.
“Joshua, you’re going to have to eat my SPAM. Otherwise I will absolutely die at this table,” I said when Nana left the room for some reason. I’m not sure he loved her supper choice either, but he’s always been better at holding his nose and doing the hard things in life than I am, a fact I am eternally grateful for.
And that’s a blessing, because had he not eaten that SPAM on that summer night all those years ago, there would still be a pile of bones laying on that dining room floor.
