Fussy Eater or Discerning Palate?

Lately, Jill's sister-in-law has accused me more than once of being a "fussy eater", simply because I don't like certain things. The same woman has two young children that are the very definition of "fussy eaters", by the way (as well as fussy sleepers, fussy television watchers, fussy ping-pong players...kids at that age are just friggin' fussy), so you'd think she'd understand the difference between somebody who is fussy and somebody who is 38 years old and just has a very clear idea of what he does and does not prefer to eat.

To my memory, the things I have expressed a lack of enthusiasm about eating in her presence are:

Pineapple
Ham
Certain vegetables (though not the usual suspects: I love broccoli and spinach, for instance)
A Hostess Zinger

Now, look. I'm almost 40, and I decided a long time ago that pineapple is fucking disgusting. And it is. I don't know how people eat this spiny cocoon of pure poison. I honestly don't. Also, a big-ass slice of ham makes me want to puke. Put the two together and you have an easy recipe for Kevin's Least Favorite Food.

I don't think my likes and dislikes are any more extreme than anybody else's. Jill's mother will only eat about three vegetables, but nobody's accused her of being a fussy eater. Jill has suffered this same accusation, which I think is mainly because she's a vegetarian; not eating meat for idealistic and/or religious reasons is not the same thing as being finicky.

I eat plenty of things that other people don't. I like jalapeno jelly. I eat the rind when somebody serves brie. I'm a fiend for Indian food, and the hotter the better. I finally gave sushi and sashimi a try a couple years ago, and what do you know? It wasn't bad (although I'm not going to eat sea urchin eggs or octopus; that's just nasty). I am the very definition of a non-fussy eater, because I'll give anything I haven't eaten the benefit of the doubt (except for the aforementioned octopus). Fussy eaters refuse to eat things because they don't like the way they look or smell; I don't eat things because of the way that they taste, which is the way it's supposed to work.

What I'm saying is, if you serve dinner to me and I don't dig into it with gusto, it's not because I'm a "fussy eater". It's because of one of the following two reasons: 1) you have prepared the meal with something I utterly despise, or 2) you're a terrible cook.

I don't believe either of those reasons denotes a character flaw on my part.

You Are a Credulous Irritant, Grandpa Hippie

I went up to a family fathering of sorts yesterday (Jillzey's family), and the day passed enjoyably enough at her aunt's cabin until...

The crazy raw-foods-eating vagabond hippie father of one of the attendees started preaching 9/11 consipiracy theories!

It started when I heard him (jeans, white polo shirt, hippie bead necklace) talking with another guest about the inanity of religion, which I agree with but don't espouse smugly at parties, when he says, "Do you believe all those other little fairy tales...LIKE WHAT HAPPENED ON 9/11?"

He then proceeded, for about the next half an hour, to preach to this poor woman, and then his grandson, all of the usual gobbledygook bullshit about 9/11 that we've all seen on a series of YouTube videos: the fires weren't hot enough, the smoke was the wrong color, Bush's MY PET GOAT blunder proves he knew (I don't get this at all), bombs, oil, blah blah blah. It was the usual litany of ignorant "facts", all of which have been debunked by people who actually know a thing or two about fires, explosives, jet fuel, architecture, and human fucking nature (people love to blab...a conspiracy this massive simply could not stand for 8 years and counting).

Well, once he ran out of steam on that subject, look out, because he was now in the mood to tell people how they're living their lives wrong. He came over to our deck table and launched into a little sermon about the benefits of his raw-foods diet, informing us that the reason people can't look directly into the sun is because of all the modern "toxins" that are in your eyeball tissue (which begs the question of why not staring into the sun is ancient wisdom that has existed long before the evil toxins).

Then, the worst thing of all. One of Jill's aunts was recently diagnosed with breasts cancer, and when preachy hippie grandpa learned that fact, he said (as smugly as ever), "Oh, don't get me started on that," before getting himself started on that regardless of our input. He of course believes that decades of proven medical procedure is silly, and that we can all magically improve our health my drinking some magical mineral water that cures malaria in no time and, I can only assume, will make cancers shrivel up and write formal apologies for inconveniencing you.

I'm sorry, old man, but using a cancer diagnosis as a springboard for your crazy patchouli-scented theories about medicine is crass, rude, and so hostile to the feelings of others that you should never be allowed to socialize again. You are an idiot, and a gullible tool of your Cheech and Chong-esque homeopathic pushers.

Futhermore, fuck you. The woman has breast cancer, asshole. Go stick your head in a horse.