I am a lover of food. I especially love exploring the many varieties offered at restaurants, parties, and in my own cooking. So of course, when seeking out a life partner, I found someone who enjoys culinary adventures as well.

HA! Just kidding.

My husband’s full name should be Mr. Steven Picky McPickerson. He comes from long, storied generations of McPickersons. His mother, Sally Choosy McPickerson, nurtured his love for staying the hell away from anything green, saucy, melty, or delicious. 

To illustrate: early in our relationship, he warned me of his predilection for turning up his nose at foods. I figured, “meh! How bad could it be?” Well . . . we went to a burger restaurant and after a few bites of his hamburger, he said to me, “You should be proud of me! I tried a  new food!” I began to worry that this meant that, at 25, he was eating his first burger. I tentatively asked, “What food is that?” He replied, “I forgot to tell the server to hold the cheese.”

Oh, Lord.

Months later, we were engaged. One busy day after wedding prep, we were back at my mom’s house and tired. We didn’t want to go out, so I decided I would cook. I boiled a box of frozen pierogi, and heated a pan of butter, onions, and garlic to saute them. Initially, I didn’t tell him exactly what was in the pan. But he asked! “What’s that good smell? Not the onions, there’s something else.” 

“Garlic,” I told him.

“No. No, garlic is too strong, and it doesn’t taste good. It can’t be garlic.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed, “trust me, it’s garlic, it smells good, it tastes delicious, and you will love it.”

I could tell he was skeptical, but when the pierogi were done sauteing, I gave him a plate of them. He could not believe what he was eating. He LOVED them. “My mom told me – I mean, I thought – “ he stammered. 

“I know. You’ll be OK. Next time I’ll make you garlic bread.”

He’s a garlic convert now.

Over the years, I have witnessed – and participated in – family food avoidance rituals. Between almost every wedding and reception, McDonald’s drive through. Getting ready for a party, I’m often asked, “what kind of food will they have?” Uh, not my party, cowboy. But sometimes, if the party is hosted by a good friend, I’ll get a head’s up ahead of time. If the menu is a dinner, Steve can usually be selective and skip a sauce or a side he doesn’t like. If it’s what I call a ‘grazing party,’ where there are hors d’oeuvres set out to pick at all evening, McDonald’s drive through on the way. If we took our chances or mistakenly thought the food would be “Steve Friendly,” but it wasn’t – guess what?! On the way home, McDonald’s drive through. 

And in the grand family tradition, Steve has passed his disdain for the delicious to our daughter, Sydney. You can imagine how difficult it was for me to cook dinner over the years. Pasta? OK. My “passed down from goodness knows how many generations” tomato sauce? NOT OK. Rice? Sure! Rice mixed with cheese and a little broccoli? NO WAY – not just the broccoli, but mixing anything into the rice. Mac & cheese? Yes! But nothing mixed in, and no breadcrumbs on top. Noodles & cheese only. 

So as you can tell, dinner time was NOT my favorite time of day. Even our son, David, the “good” eater, doesn’t like potatoes. Samwise Gamgee would be so disappointed. 

Not everyone is picky in the same way. Steve and Sydney love my garlic smashed potatoes. Not David. David & Steve like burgers. Not Sydney. Here is the *brief* list of foods we all enjoy: Sausage & hot dogs, pizza (but not too much sauce!), ham, plain rice, and any bread-based breakfast food – but no syrup for Sydney and not butter for David. 

Eventually, I got into a cooking routine in which most of us were happy most of the time. I especially found ways to jazz up pasta with foods that could be picked around among the noodles & butter/garlic sauce. And that, dear listener, is where our story truly begins. 

When our kids were in their mid-teens, I walked downstairs and into the kitchen. There, at the table, sat my husband and children. They told me to sit with them. I asked what this was about. In short – it was an intervention. 

“We want to talk to you about something you’re doing that we can’t take anymore.” Said David.

“What’s that?”

“Pasta,” replied Sydney. I looked at Steve. All he did was nod. 

“What about the pasta?”

David looked like he couldn’t hold it in anymore, “We need you to stop putting peas in the pasta.” 

I argued. I bargained, I got angry – angry at these people who had backed me into a culinary corner which felt ever-shrinking. Eventually I relented. I agreed to only *sometimes* put peas in pasta. And because there’s no rehab center for good, if repetitive, cooks, I sat around and tried to plan that night’s dinner. 

It’s been several years since the intervention. There were always issues surrounding dinner, but that seemed to be the peak of the complaints about my cooking. We have since found some common ground. Steve’s tastes have broadened to include more vegetables, even asparagus, and some sauces, though still not tomato. And don’t try to figure out the pizza contradiction – somehow tomato sauce is great between bread & cheese, but not on spaghetti. 

And it’s been even easier to deal with the kids, they’re living on their own!!