I was a picky eater. I was a picky eater in a permissive family. I was a picky eater in a permissive family that ate, drank, and smoked not quite in moderation. I was also the youngest in my family, the only grandchild, and as stubborn as a mule.
All of this means that I never ate a green vegetable from my earliest memory of geen vegetables (age 6, one brussel sprout) until I was legal drinking age (raw spinach in a salad.) Not only did I not eat any green vegetables I also did not eat: melons, pineapple, yogurt, carrots, pie, yams, mushrooms, tomatoes, pecans, cauliflower, berries, walnuts, coconut, coleslaw, and bananas. For a long time I refused to eat chicken, milk, and meatballs and for years and years I refused to eat spaghetti. Not pasta but actual spaghetti because I decided a plate of spaghetti noodles in sauce looked like brains and blood with the specks of spices doubling as flies. I was an imaginative child. I only ate instant mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese from a blue box. In addition, I was constantly on the look out for things that might have an odd consistency or texture because I did not want things like that in my mouth. And, of course, at any point if something was not visually pleasing I wasn’t eating it – no matter what was said or done.
I have no words of wisdom for the parents of other picky eaters. Just the small reassurance that I never contracted rickets or scurvy. And eventually I overcame my disdain of pie.