Growing up, everyone in my family picked on me for my unwillingness to try new foods. There are numerous stories my family can probably tell to embarrass me. Therefore, I’ll beat them to the punch and get the most obvious one out of the way.
One evening, long ago, my aunt Marianne was watching my two older sisters, my two younger brothers, and me. It must have been a Friday during Lent, because we were not allowed to eat meat. Knowing that I was a picky eater, my aunt was nice enough to cook me some noodles so I would not have to eat fish (yuck!) with peas (gag!). To my utter horror, I watched her as she proceeded to butter my noodles with the same knife she used to butter a bowl of peas. Being the stubborn brat I was, I refused to eat the noodles that had been ruined by indirect contact with those slimy, disgusting peas.
25 years later, my family still asks me at holiday parties if I want peas with my dinner. I still refuse.
In addition to being picky, I also was very stubborn when it came to trying new foods. My parents were big fans of the “you’ll sit here until you’ve eaten everything on your plate” tactic to get me to try new foods. Unfortunately for them, I quickly mastered this game. I figured out that my parents would never make me stay at the table past my bedtime. Yes, that’s right, I would rather sit at our dinner table for 3 or 4 hours, staring at a gooey blob of lasagna, than to actually try it.
If I kept a diary of when I tried new foods, you’d really get a kick out of my bizarre eating habits. It would probably read something like this:
Age 18: First time eating chop suey. Not just the tiny pieces of chicken that I could salvage from the mess, but the weird transparent worm-like things and those weird crunchy white circles. Not too bad.
Age 20: Friends were buying a pizza like thing called a calzone. They said it was just like a pizza folded on top of itself. They said I’d be stupid to get it without pepperoni. Holy crap, this pepperoni stuff is amazing. Yum.
Age 22: My sister finally convinced me that rice did not taste like maggots. She said it didn’t have much taste. “Why do people bother eating it then?”, I asked. (Sorry, I don’t recall the answer.)
Fast forward a decade, and I can’t say that I’m much better. However, when we decided to make the move to Mexico, I realized that I’d be eating plenty of new and interesting types of foods. In addition, I knew my lack of Spanish was going to prevent me from ordering food to my exacting standards. I wouldn’t even be able to properly complain about it after it arrived. I needed to broaden my gastronomic horizons or I would go crazy trying to cope. I knew it was all part of the adventure.
I quickly realized that Mexicans love their mayonnaise. Not only that, it’s so typical on food here, that menus with listed ingredients omit it from the description. It seriously sucks, to finally gather the courage to order my very first fish tacos, only to have them delivered, smothered in mayo. Back in the States, I probably would have sent them back, stating that I didn’t know it came with mayo. However, here in PDC, I painstakingly wiped as much of it off, and I’m pleased to announce that fish tacos aren’t all that bad. As for the mayonnaise… “sin mayonesa” (no mayo) now follows my order for any new food order.
On the subject of fish, I can honestly say that I still don’t particularly like it. However, it’s hard to ignore the health benefits of eating it. In addition, eating fish is a way I can justify my enjoyment of the wonderful sport fishing that Playa has to offer. After my last trip, I was looking forward to trying some of my friend Joe’s catch, a 30 pound black grouper. However, the chef only prepared us a monster bowl of fresh ceviche – cold, raw fish, “cooked” in lime juice. Not exactly what I was expecting, but I managed to survive 2 plates of it.
Recently, my friend Antonio decided to treat me to some tacos, fresh off a taco cart. My Spanish isn’t great, but good enough to hear Antonio tell the guy to go easy on me. Hmm … what had I got myself into? I then heard him order lengua (cow tongue) and tripa (cow intestines) tacos. Holy crap! My own personal Fear Factor! Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of my friend, I forged ahead. The tripa had the consistency of wet sand and a taste to match. I was only able to choke down one bite before handing it off. I fared better with the lengua, which tasted a lot like liver. (At least what I imagine liver would taste like if I had ever tried it.) Not too bad. I even asked for seconds. “Parts is parts“, and parts like lengua is really no different than eating a rib eye or prime rib.
I’m sure there are many other culinary adventures awaiting me here. Who knows what the next few years will bring… Octopus tacos, cabrito, or chicharrones… who knows?
Yesterday evening, we invited a small group of our Playa friends over to celebrate Libby’s birthday. Much fun was had, and (too) much wine, beer, and pizza was consumed. 
