My mom always told me that as a child I was easy to cook for. That meant that, unlike her other children, I would pretty much eat whatever was put in front of me, not unlike the dog.
My siblings were picky eaters. My older brother refused to eat any vegetable except for Jell-O while my younger brother refused to eat any meat except for ham. My older sister’s tastes changed hourly (“Today I became a vegan!”) and my middle sister subsisted mainly on hard-boiled eggs.
The constant shifting of tastes made cooking challenging for Mom, a good, 1960’s mother who tried to please everyone. She did this by combining food into memorable combinations. A typical meal might start with spaghetti, which my dad insisted on eating every day. To accompany this would be a meat loaf studded with hard-boiled eggs, and a side dish of Jell-O. My middle sister would eat the hard boiled eggs, my older sister would declare she did not eat anything made of wheat and my mother simply told my younger brother that the meatloaf was ham. I’m not sure everyone was happy, but no one ever starved either.
I am not as patient as my mother. My culinary credo, if there is one, is best expressed as, “Take it or leave it,” and even this was sorely tested recently when my partner’s brother came for a visit from New Jersey. I have been cooking for my partner’s family for almost 20 years with some success; as long as I liberally dose whatever I cook with maple syrup they are happy. But on this visit, as I was carving the pork roast, my partner’s brother announced he did not eat pork.
I was mildly surprised; for one thing, if I say so myself, I make an incredible pork roast, seasoned with garlic and lime. For another, I have seen this man gorge himself on sausage, spare ribs and Honey-baked ham for years, cleaning his plate and licking the pot. “Are you keeping Kosher?” I asked.
He looked annoyed. “Pork is poison,” he said. “I want no part of it.” Quite honestly, I didn’t especially care, so I shrugged and said “OK. You can fill up on potatoes.” He looked stricken. “I need protein for dinner. I worked out today.”
I sighed, and all was lost. “What do you want?” I said, and he brightened instantly. “Just open up a can of tuna,” he said. “I don’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“Whatever,” I said and, inspired, I went to the back of the cupboard where I found an ancient can of chunk tuna packed in oil. It’s been there forever; even during Hurricane Wilma I could not bring myself to open it.
But I opened it now and, not draining the oil or warming the contents, I upended the can onto a small dish. As the rest of the family was serving my juicy, aromatic pork roast, I put that dish in front of him and he turned pale. He squeamishly ladled a moist spoonful onto his plate. It looked, and smelled, like cat food.
After several half-hearted bites he paused. “I’m being rude,” he said to the table at large. “Guy went to all this trouble, the least I can do is eat it.” “No worries,” said my partner, pulling the platter towards him. “There’s more for me. Eat your tuna.”
As it turned out there was plenty of pork roast left over after dinner that night. The next day, I wanted a pork sandwich for lunch but curiously, there was considerably less pork than the night before, so I made myself a tuna sandwich. I can eat anything.