Challenge: Write a story, fact or fiction (in any form you desire) about anything that pertains to picky eaters.
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I’m not a picky eater -- I just don’t eat what I don’t like.
I can’t remember when I stopped eating “insides.” Actually, I don’t remember ever eating the disgusting things, but my parents said I once loved them. I grew up on a chicken farm and Sunday dinner was usually chicken. My parents tell me that I enjoyed eating the liver, heart, gizzard, and whatever other nasty things come out of the inside of a chicken.
Before I could remember eating those things (maybe I blocked it from my mind), I stopped eating most meat. Until I was fourteen, the only meat I’d eat was hot dogs, hamburgers, and maybe some occasional ham. Given the proper prompt, I’ll tell you the story of the first and second times I ate a steak and how my parents almost fainted.
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I’m a Scot and proud of my heritage: I have a family tartan, motto, and coat of arms. Our clan was very powerful for hundreds of years and I love everything Scotland until you try to serve me haggis. Heart, liver, lungs, maybe even ovaries and testes all wrapped in a stomach and boiled -- nope, ain’t getting that near my mouth.
Speaking of testes, don’t get me started on Rocky Mountain Oysters -- had them once because I didn’t know what I was eating. That’s another thing that ain’t gonna happen again -- now I know what they look like!
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I got out of the Marine Corps in 1981 and drove the family from North Carolina back out here to California. Every night we’d ask the kids what they wanted for dinner and -- every night -- they’d scream, “McDonalds.” We ate a lot of Big Macs and Happy Meals on that trip. One night wife and I were tired of the same old thing and decided to change things up a bit. With a bit of prior planning, we got a motel room and I went out to get dinner while the kids watched TV.
I brought back a big bucket of KFC (extra crispy), mashed potatoes and gravy, cole slaw, and biscuits. The kids quickly forgot their love for McDonalds and dug in. After the kids were eating, I grabbed a drumstick and took a bite. The outside was nice and crispy and, it was raw inside. Not just raw, but cold and bloody.
Wife and I checked the kids’ food and then she distracted them while I cut open all the other pieces of chicken. I found one breast that was a bit undercooked and threw it away and then we let the kids finish dinner.
That started a period of nearly twenty years during which I couldn’t eat chicken. If I even took a bite of it, it would make me sick. I’m aware that it was strictly psychological, but anytime someone tried to trick me into eating chicken, I’d upchuck.
I finally got over it by starting easy. I’d stir-fry a few very small pieces of boneless, skinless chicken breast until they were done. By done, I mean they were completely dry.
What finally got me over my aversion to chicken was when I was down on my luck and a friend brought me a couple big family packs of chicken. I wasn’t starving but I was hungry and needed something for dinner and I had a bunch of chicken. I started by seasoning the heck out of them, coating them with every type of crumb I had in the kitchen, and then (over) baking them.
I can now eat chicken without getting sick but I still take a first bite and then check to make sure it’s cooked enough.
See, I’m not picky.