For the better part of my life, my palate has been as adventurous as that of a housecat—happy with the same old thing, wary of anything that might have a surprising texture, and passionately devoted to beige foods. But then something changed. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was boredom, perhaps it was the creeping sense that I couldn’t keep saying “no thanks” to half the menu for the rest of my life. Whatever the reason, I found myself staring down a bowl of lobster mac and cheese like it was a final exam I hadn’t studied for. But I had no choice but to try it. In other words, she ate.
Lobster. Mac. And. Cheese.
Three words that, alone, I could have dealt with; but together? It was a trust fall with dairy. The bowl of mac and cheese sat before me, radiating heat and smugness, as if it knew it was about to betray me. My family gathered around, their interest rivaled only by the debut of a Marvel movie or a season finale of “Stranger Things.” I mentally prepared myself, picked up my fork, and dug in.
The first bite was…puzzling. It was warm, it was rich, it was creamy…and then, oh wait, was that sweetness? Saltiness? A texture that wasn’t pasta? My mind reeled to put it into a category, like a librarian trying to find a home for a book that didn’t have a title. But then something weird happened: I didn’t hate it. In fact, I ate another bite. And another. And to my absolute shock, the world didn’t end. No alarms sounded. No gag reflex. Just me, sitting there, eating lobster mac and cheese like a person who maybe, just maybe, could learn to like new things.
But indulging in that lobster mac didn’t suddenly turn me into a foodie. I’m not out here now, slurping down oysters and scouring menus for truffle samplers. But it did break something open. It sparked curiosity. It gave me the courage to be bold in a small (very very small), culinary way. And it reminded me that maybe the world of food isn’t as terrifying as I’ve been making it out to be.
This column, then, is my way of continuing down that path—to experiment with the foods I’ve avoided, to sample the dishes I’ve been skeptical of, to allow myself to be surprised. Some of these endeavors will be successes. Others will be failures. But all of them will be true to themselves.
Because, at the end of the day, this isn’t just about food. It’s about growing up, loosening up, and allowing myself to live life to the fullest, rather than sticking to the kids’ menu.
And if lobster mac and cheese was the start of this journey, I have no idea what I’ll be eating next.
After all, she ate.
