My Taste Buds are Still Seven Years Old

We all retain something from our childhood; a class picture, a good luck charm, or even a few playground scars. What I’ve kept is my palate.  You see my taste buds are still seven years old.

I’ve grown up. My palate hasn’t.

Through the years, I’ve tried to introduce it to delectable new flavours, exotic cuisines and refined delicacies. They were always refused and resisted, in preference for the tastes of my childhood: sugar cookies, chocolate ice cream, French fries, and my mother’s home cooking.

As I grew up, I’ve had to take my palate with me to dates and parties. Most guys thought it was cute and lovable.  Once on a first date, when all I had eaten was a salad, the guy ordered the entire dessert menu for me— you can guess why I later married him.

Lately however, my juvenile palate has ceased to be so endearing. In fact it has become quite a source of embarrassment. Whenever I’m part of any gathering around a meal, I’m the odd one out.  As the conversation inevitably shifts to the food on my dining companions’ plate, my mind goes blank. I feel like a kid listening in on an adult conversation. Clueless.

When invited to a dinner party, I will only venture towards the familiar lettuce leaves, potatoes and dessert. Then as I get asked whether I liked the chicken (or any other meal) I pretend. Through the years, I perfected the art of faking it. I practised the artful head nod, the appreciative, raised eyebrows. I even learned how to spice it up with sound effects, like a well-placed Ummm or a Yummm.

For my own dinner invitations, I always made sure the catered menu was quite refined.  My trick there, was to memorise the name of every dish on my table, and its ingredients—just in case someone asks.  Inevitably, I always got tested with a trick question like: is there crème fraîche in the sauce?*

So here it is at last, my confession. Now out in the open. So please if I’m ever at your table, don’t be offended if I’m just having the salad and potatoes. And if you’re making truffles in my honour, remember it doesn’t matter whether they’re white, black, pink or purple. As long as they’re made of chocolate ice cream, my palate will say please and thank you.

*Answer 1: maybe

*Answer 2: a bit. Are you allergic to it?

*Answer 3: what sauce?

*Answer 4: all of the above