by Liz Hickok
She lived in a warren of closely packed red bricked Victorian houses. These were known as “two up, two down” with an outside lavatory. Built for factory workers at the turn of the 19th century in downtown Belfast, they looked like rows of identical prison cells.
For years my grandmother had worked as a cook in some of the stately homes around Northern Ireland. She would bring Mrs. Davey warm soda bread, speckled raisin scones and my favorite, hot potato/apple flaky tarts, all freshly baked in our range by her own hands. The smell caused every dog in the neighborhood to follow us sniffing the air, hoping we might drop something. No fear.
After eating all the goodies, we sat down around her brown shiny dining table. She placed the colorful cards out in a cross shape and proceeded with her predictions.
“Nan, your Kitty is going to meet a tall dark man and they seem to be getting very pally,” she said.
“Are you off your head, Bella? Our Kitty has not seen hair nor hide of any man for at least 15 years.” My grandmother was highly amused at the thought.
“Well, mark me now.” Mrs. Davey banged the flat of her hand on the table. My grandmother stopped laughing.
On the way home, the two of them were discussing Kitty and the improbability of her ever marrying. Both enjoyed a good hearty laugh at such a preposterous idea.
“She’s too set in her ways for any man,” my grandmother remarked.
“Sure, she is happy as she is on her own,” my mother retorted with a knowing look at my grandmother. My grandfather had recently been diagnosed with diabetes and was railing against the world, particularly as he could not eat his wife’s delicious cooking anymore. My grandmother gave him two delicate slices of brown bread with a sliver of margarine each morning just before he gave himself his insulin injection. Their room had started to smell like a hospital.
My aunt Kitty was their eldest daughter in a family of nine children. Beyond the first flush of youth, she had never married or even had a serious boyfriend. Steeped in a fixed routine of working all day, then coming home and sitting by the black range that threw out all the comfort and warmth in the house, Kitty appeared contented. This black and brass range was also where my grandmother cooked all the food. Kitty would sit by the side of the range holding one of the youngest members of the house on her lap, tickling and squeezing them until they exploded with laughter and joy. She would also sing music hall songs in her husky contralto voice. She loved books about cowboys and had every Zane Grey book ever written. Sometimes, she would go to the Cinema to see a Western or to the Music Hall with her one of her girlfriends. Over the years, my mother and the other younger sisters married and had children, but Kitty looked destined to remain a spinster.
My grandfather was the stage manager of the Old Alhambra Music Hall in downtown Belfast. It was part of his job to get digs or accommodations for all his visiting entertainers. Kitty had always helped him out with this chore and would go around to the various landlords and landladies near the theatre and look at their available rooms. My grandfather wanted to make sure their houses would be suitable for the various visiting artists performing at the Music Hall. Mrs. Gaffney, just recently widowed, rented out rooms by the week. Kitty had become friendly with her and was great company for Mrs. Gaffey since the death of her husband. Kitty started to visit her in the evenings, and they would cook together, take tea, and talk.
Several months after the psychic visit with Mrs. Davey, my mother began noticing that Kitty was changing her ways. She bought a new pale blue woolen coat with a white fur collar. She wore the new coat one evening over to visit Mrs. Gaffney. New coats were typically reserved for Church on Sundays. New lipstick was bought, and she would trace a faint outline on her Clara Bow lips. Late in the evening, she would arrive home flustered, red-faced, and breathing rather heavily with traces of red blotches dotted on her chin.
Eventually, she cracked and spilled the beans to my mother.
“The doorbell rang when I was visiting Mrs. Gaffney down by the Alhambra. Mrs. Gaffney asked me to open it as she was busy boiling up beetroot for the next day’s salad. When I opened the door there was this fella standing there. He was tall with brown eyes, tan skin, and gleaming white teeth.” She was breathless and pink in the face as she was telling the story. My mother did her best to hide both her smile and her astonishment.
“His name is Stephen, and he’s from the country but travels around selling bed linen, rugs and suits to ‘ol farmers who never go shopping.” She was on a roll. “He has a car. He calls it ‘ol Lizzie’ and we have been out and about for a spin up to his father’s farm in Omeath.”
Kitty was smitten, and my mother and soon all the rest of the family knew about the budding romance.
Mrs. Davey’s prediction was not mentioned. My mother would save that for a future visit. They would talk, munch the baked goodies together, and wonder at the mystery of it all.
Kitty and my grandmother always had fierce arguments over cooking. Kitty was “as slow as a snail with rheumatics” to quote my grandmother while she, on the other hand, buzzed about like a bee on whiskey. Once, I came into the kitchen, and Kitty was washing the chicken before cooking it for dinner. She had been holding it under the cold water tap for about ten minutes.
“For God’s sake, Kitty, the bird is already dead. You don’t have to drown it as well; it’s bloody neck’s broken,” My grandmother snapped at her.
My mother would try and keep the peace between them.
“Sure, she has her own little ways mammy. Just let her be.”
Kitty brought up the subject just after Sunday Mass. She was frying the bacon and eggs for breakfast. The smell was wafting all over the house and making everyone hungry. Kitty moved in front of the gleaming black-leaded range. She leaned over to slowly flip the grease over the eggs. As she did, her blue skirt hitched up at the back, swinging and showing her pink satin knickers that covered the back of her plump white knees.
“I was thinking of asking Stephen to come around for the Sunday dinner next week.” Her eyes were looking down at the frying pan when she said this. My mother and grandmother exchanged glances.
My mother spoke first: “Sure, that would be lovely Kitty.”
“I’ll do the cooking,” she blurted out before my grandmother could open her mouth to offer.
“Well, suit yourself.” My grandmother was not pleased at being overlooked as she was the chief cook in the family. She drew her cardigan around her tightly and sat bolt upright on the horsehair settee.
Ever the peacemaker, my mother jumped in before the row started in earnest.
“Well, maybe Stephen will want to see if she can cook up a tasty dinner for him,” she joked.
Kitty hitched her skirt down at the back and put an egg and some crispy bacon onto one of the yellow china plates. My brother Joe grabbed it. He was the little pet and spoiled. As the only boy among all the girls in the house, he could do no wrong.
“Take that to the table.” My mother was trying to put manners on him.
“Have you thought what you might make for the dinner?” my mother asked. She looked over at my grannie who sat with her lips pursed like razor blades.
“I was thinking of a leg of lamb,” Kitty said. “I can get it from Eric McErlane down at Castle Junction. He has lovely fresh meat.”
“What will you do for dessert?” said my mother. She hoped Kitty would ask Granny to do one of her famous apple pies or crumbles or a golden topped baked Alaska.
No such luck.
“I’m going to bake a nice rice pudding,” she simpered. “Stephen likes plain cooking.”
Under her breath my grandmother muttered, “Well he’s come to the right place for that for sure.” With that, she drew herself up and stamped off into the garden to clip her flowers back like an executioner.
Kitty did all the buying and preparing, and my grandmother let her. Sunday came around quick enough, and Kitty had on her new blue pinafore with a white satin blouse stretched underneath. She ha
d put face powder on the red mole on her chin.
The lamb was sizzling in the range and even the dog next door was waiting for the bone. My mother’s wedding present of green hand-painted china was gracing the table, and all the silverware was brightly polished and gleaming to perfection.
The black Ford Popular drew up, and Stephen got out of the car near the front of the house. We were all watching through the white lace curtains. He walked like both feet were fighting each other with his grey trousers flapping about over his black polished shoes. He took off his grey fedora and was introduced all round. We could see the “brown eyes, and white teeth.” My grandfather also smelled the Guinness and was reserving judgment. I could see my mother’s mouth tighten, ‘‘fond of a dram’: a black mark against him.” Kitty was simpering like a baby cow.
The first part of the dinner was served up by Kitty with many compliments over the lamb, roast potatoes, cabbage and brown gravy. Everyone was eating heartily, especially Stephen. My mother would gaze over at Joe now and then. She was on tenterhooks as to what he might say or do next. She would look at him trying to catch his eye. When she did eventually, she would narrow her eyes beaming a warning ray towards his head.
Pudding time arrived. A steaming jug of yellow custard piping hot was set down beside the white flowers on the table. Out came a billow of fresh cream.
Kitty carried the rice pudding from the oven and set it down with a flourish. The top had a thick crust of yellow and brown sugar plus the black currents soaking in the milk.
Joe grabbed the first bowl offered, as usual, took a mighty spoonful, and immediately spat it out across the table.
“What in God’s name?”
Kitty almost turned green. My grandmother reached over and dipped her nose over the rice pudding to see what was wrong.
“It’s barley you used. It’s barley, not rice.” The satisfaction carried in her voice. My mother dragged Joe from the table and rushed him up the stairs before he could say anything.
“No matter,” said Stephen. He proceeded to eat his bowlful with the custard and cream. My grandfather nearly cried and so did Kitty. The Guinness was forgotten for the moment as my grandfather almost hugged Stephen. Kitty smiled through her tears. My mother came back down the stairs, and she nearly bit her lip all the way through to hold in the laughter as she was beginning to see the funny side in all of this.
The rest of the afternoon floated past. As soon as Kitty and Stephen left in the car, the family burst into buckets of laughter. The range looked well used, and my grandmother and mother cleaned up the mess, washed the dishes, and talked about Stephen and the barley. Nothing was mentioned when Kitty arrived home flushed and clutching her handkerchief. She took herself off to bed to dream as she had a wedding to plan now.
Years later, I overheard Kitty and Stephen, long since married, joking with each other: “Lord that I had married a sensible man,” Kitty said, rolling her eyes up to heaven. Stephen was quick with his response: “Kitty, a sensible man wouldn’t have had ya. I still have chronic indigestion from yon rice pudding.” They both laughed and clutched hands.
Life Advice from an Adult Picky Eater
By Elizabeth Forsyth
Confession time: I am an adult picky eater. I won’t own up to my age, but I’m old enough to simultaneously avoid food I hate and feel guilty about it.
I hate tomatoes—even touching them. Tomato sauce and soup is okay, but not chunks of tomato in food or gazpacho. I don’t like the mushy middles of potatoes. Cooked broccoli? Nope: too smelly. But raw broccoli is fine. Chewy cookies or—shudder—raw cookie dough? Pass. Give me crispy, crunchy cookies. Anything other than cheese pizza? No, thank you. Don’t even get me started on chocolate and peanut butter together.
On top of this, I’ve been vegetarian for eleven years.
I’ll never forget the butterflies in my stomach the Thanksgiving I decided to come out to my parents as vegetarian. We were sitting outside a popular Mexican restaurant waiting for our reservation to be called when I broke the news to them that I would no longer be ordering chicken and a quesadilla; from now on, I’ll only be ordering a quesadilla.
A silence followed that was long enough for me to wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and have blue dye come off onto my palms.
My dad finally broke the silence: “What on earth are you going to eat?”
My parents had high hopes for me when I was young. There is a family legend floating around that I used to eat green beans when I was a toddler. (I suspect this legend might be fictional.) I do know that my pickiness emerged young enough to dash any hope of my parents’ that I would be a lima bean’s number one fan.
It has been a struggle to cope sometimes, to be seen as having a childish palate when really I just want to have something to eat. I have a mature palate, I promise; it just likes simple foods.
I’ve decided to compile a list of advice for my fellow picky eaters in the hopes that they, too, can hide their inclinations as they grow older, and it becomes more challenging to throw a tantrum when your dinner isn’t dinosaur-shaped chicken fingers.
1. Follow a fad diet. Claim disliked food items aren’t on the approved eating list. Not a fan of cauliflower (is anyone really)? You know, cauliflower isn’t actually part of the paleo diet. Really. Or the gluten-free diet. Or low-carb. I’m vegetarian for reasons other than pickiness, but it’s a very convenient excuse. (Take this idea with a grain of salt. Really. Salt makes most foods more palatable. )
2. Travel. I was introduced into the wonderful world of mushrooms at age 22 when backpacking across Europe. Apparently slimy-looking mushrooms taste amazing after being sautéed with an obscene amount of butter—who knew? I also ate a lot of different breads and cheeses there; once, I had a brie and spinach sandwich in France, and I didn’t even remove the rind from the slices of brie before consuming. Progress.
3. Drink a lot of water. This works brilliantly for several reasons:
A. You can swallow food without chewing, avoiding weird textures and flavors.
B. It fills you up. “No, thank you,” you say to the second helping of Christmas leftovers in aspic. “I’m so full—I couldn’t possibly.”
C. (This tends to only be valid in a nicer restaurant.) It makes waiters appear quickly. This is somewhat unexciting until you realize that they can take your plate away. Do you want your leftovers boxed? No, you’re only visiting and have no refrigerator in your hotel room. Too bad.
D. Drinking a lot of water is great for your skin.
I have hidden many picky moments—including in front of my future in-laws—using the water trick. Remember, pickiness doesn’t impress a month into a relationship. Wait at least two months to let your true colors show.
4. Always order a variation of a basic standby. Mine is wheat and cheese. Think about it; all the best foods are wheat and cheese. Pizza, grilled cheese, cheese pasta, cheese and crackers, cheese toasties, mac-and-cheese: all of these are basically wheat and cheese. If you order something that’s wheat and cheese and it doesn’t taste great, then you probably haven’t missed out on anything by not ordering something else; if it tastes great, you’re all set!
You can pick your own basic standby. For example, you may like salad (but why would you when there’s wheat and cheese?). Figure out what works best for you.
5. Learn to cook your own food.
This might be the most controversial of all my suggestions. While I realize not everyone is interested in cooking (and even less in cleaning the dishes cooking generates), it has helped to make food a lot less mysterious and scary, and I’m eating slightly greater variety of vegetables (not yet cauliflower).
Those slightly chewy cookies? I know what’s in the ones I make: flour, butter, eggs, salt, sugar, chocolate chips, raising agent. I know they were in the oven long enough to technically cook. I know no one’s germs but my own are in there. I’m still not a fan of the texture, but I’m confident that they are edible.
Cooking also forces me
to learn names of foods. A gnocchi served with browned pesto roux can now be translated to a much less intimidating potato pasta with flour and butter, pine nuts, and basil.
Careful—like all translations, sometimes meanings are lost. Once I ordered a margherita pizza (translated: a cheese pizza with pesky bits of tomato that I can pick out) at a restaurant in rural New Hampshire. A vegetarian-safe bet. Ten minutes later, the surly New England waitress plopped down our dinners, my mother’s butternut squash ravioli and my margherita pizza. With ham.
“There’s ham on my pizza.”
“Yeah, that’s how it’s made.”
“It’s margherita pizza.”
“Yeah, that’s what margherita pizza means. Cheese with ham.”
I was too flabbergasted and apprehensive to call over a manager and ask about his definition of a margherita pizza, so I switched plates with my mother. I’m still not sure I understand New Hampshirites.
6. Try new foods, little by little. Just the other day I tried cheesecake for the first time. Three “no, thank you” bites. It wasn’t bad. I’m not going to order it for dessert, but I lived. My world wasn’t better, but it was more explored, and I’m okay with that. I even found a part of the cheesecake that I liked: the chocolate chips that were in it.
7. Accept that you will always be somewhat picky. Certain textures will always slip through or stick to my palate in an unpleasant way; certain tastes fill the air at the back of my throat and taint each breath with reminders of a want-to-be-forgotten food. The smell of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos will always make me gag, especially when my older sister wags her Cheeto dust-covered fingers in front of my nose. That’s okay. Just handle it like a mature adult; tell on your sister to your parents.
And that’s it. That’s how you survive as an adult picky eater. Easy as pie (strawberry or apple, the only two kinds I will eat).
Eat a mildly varied diet, don’t be scared to try new things, but feel confident enough to say “no, thanks” if you don’t want to eat something—even to your parents.
