Give me one reason

When I was a kid, my grandmother always placed a lot of importance on eating all different kinds of food. Whenever I told her I didn’t like something, she would correct me, “No, you just haven’t learned to like it yet.” In some cases she was right. She did actually teach me to like brussels sprouts, although in order for me to eat them they had to be slathered in mayonnaise, which my parents never had at our house. I was a picky eater as a child, but now there is only a short list of foods I won’t eat: Mushrooms. Olives. Mayonnaise (ironic, I know). Duck. Pickles.

Yesterday, when I made subtle retching sounds (something my mother taught me never to do) as Nathan pulled relish out of the refrigerator, he asked me what it was about pickles that I didn’t like. This is an impossible question to answer, although that doesn’t stop me from repeating all summer long, “What do you mean you don’t like tomatoes? How can anyone not like tomatoes?” But seriously, tomatoes in the summertime? Amazing. Anyway, here’s how the conversation went yesterday.

Him: What don’t you like about pickles?
Me: Umm, the taste. The smell.
Him: Okay…
Me: The look.
Him: The look? What do you mean? They look just like cucumbers!
Me: They do NOT look like cucumbers! Cucumbers are a beautiful green color.
Him: Pickles are green.
Me: Not the same green at all. Pickles look like cucumbers that got sick.
Him: Oh, you’re right. Pickles ARE disgusting. I’m so glad you were able to give me logical reasons for your dislike. I see now that you are right and I am wrong.

Okay, it’s possible that the very end of the conversation didn’t happen exactly like that, and in fact resembled a simple eye roll instead. It's called artistic license, people.

There is one food on my list that I actually have a good reason for disliking. If asked about it, I think the conversation would go something like this.

Him: Why don’t you like duck?
Me: Because I had a pet duck named Howard. I don’t eat cat, either.
Him: (not-so-subtle retching sounds)

It’s true. I had a pet duck for a month my senior year of high school. Howard was hatched in my school’s Genetics & Embryology class. I had dropped the class earlier during a brief stint of animal rights activism (which basically consisted of me switching shaving cream brands and not eating enough protein), so I missed the hatching of chicks and ducks. A friend of mine had Howard and didn’t want to keep him, so I took him home. He had supposedly imprinted on my friend, but she hadn’t done it quite right, so he thought anyone wearing brown shoes was his mother. He was an amazing pet. He swam in the bathtub, ate about a head of lettuce per day, terrorized the cats, and napped on his back in the palm of my hand. Eventually he got too big for our house and he went to live at a farm. (That’s not a euphemism—it was an actual farm.) It’s been 10 years, and I now eat meat with gusto and have switched back to Gillette, but I still can’t bring myself to eat duck meat.

It’s a good thing I never had a pet goose liver. Mmmmm.