The human face makes a very distinct expression when eating a
food that isn’t tasty: somewhere between a scrunch and a scream.
When I’d just turned 18 and was out with a fellow over-age friend,
I ordered a dry red wine based on the presumption that I was now
an adult, and should leave my Bacardi Breezer past behind me.
“Mmm, delicious!” I lied, catching my face making the tell-tale
scrunch-scream in the reflection of a window.
More than a decade on, I still find my face contorting regularly.
I’ve spent the past 10 years aggressively attempting to refine
my palate, forcing myself to eat things I’ve always believed to be
‘grown-up foods’, and a sign of maturity: olives; soft cheeses; chilli;
alcohol that isn’t peach-flavoured and poured from a can. As it
turns out, a fear of being laughed at by my peers combined with
a growing dread of becoming the embodiment of late-20s arrested
development is far more uncomfortable than a yucky meal.
Remember being six or seven, when the worst insult someone –
especially an older sibling – could throw at you was ‘baby’? I can
vouch for the fact that hang-up really stays with some people, and
shame can be a huge behavioural motivator. It can make young
adults worry that we aren’t being young adults properly, and
overcompensate. The result? For years now, I’ve been trying to
strong-arm my palate into adulthood.It’s been said that you can alter your tastebuds simply by forcing
yourself to repeatedly eat a food you don’t like until they adapt.
But I’ve eaten enough olives to cause a shortage to the entire
Mediterranean region, and I still hate them. Every type; every
flavour; mixed into foods or eaten alone; soaked in a cocktail or
purchased from an expensive deli – they are all awful. I’m sorry.Reverse psychology is apparently an effective way to get kids to
willingly eat tantrum-inducing foods, so I’ve tried that approach,
too. “Yum yum! More chilli, please!” I bark, ingesting a forkful of
chow heavy with red flakes and neuroses. A smile can be faked,
but you can’t trick your tongue. Eyes water; cheeks become
inflamed; the squish-faced expression appears: defeated again.
A key sign of adulthood is when party food transitions from fairy
bread to thoughtfully arranged (and photogenic) platters, but most
of those creamy cheeses and mystery meats leave me nostalgic
for frozen pies. “I’M TRYING,” I want to scream, raising a lump
of gorgonzola to my lips. Nobody wants to be the picky eater at a
dinner party or the customer asking for alterations to menu items.
But is eating stinky cheese really a sign of being a grown-up?
Does eating oysters or spending too much money on a bottle
of tannins truly define adulthood? Will we look back on our lives
and reflect on pivotal moments of self-actualisation and growth,
mentally bookmarking the time we first enjoyed random fruit in
a savoury salad? It’s dawning on me now that ordering the kids’
menu chicken nuggets and enjoying them without shame might
actually be the more mature option. At least you know what
you want from life.
It’s a revelation to realise growing up means embracing who you
are instead of fighting it, and accepting your childish palate for
what it is, knowing your mates aren’t going to judge you. It’s far
better to experience social events with a smile on your face instead
of a squishy scrunch. Although, last week at a picnic I ate an olive
again, just to triple-check they’re still awful. Turns out they are,
so I think that will be my last one. Baby steps.a grown-up palate
DEIRDRE FIDGE HAS TASTED
ADULTHOOD, AND SHE ISN’T
PARTICULARLY IMPRESSED.
PhotoCourtney Jacksonrant