My husband received a text message from a friend at about 6:45 this morning.
“You guys are in the paper. E-1. Huge picture.”
I knew this day was coming — we’d been interviewed a few weeks back for a story about couples with conflicting tastes in food. Bob and I each talked on the phone with a reporter from California, and then a photographer from the local paper staged a photo shoot in our kitchen.
And today, it was all published.
At the center of the story is Bob’s lethal allergy to eggs and slightly-less-deadly allergy to poultry. And, of course, my discomfort with most things fish-like, especially shellfish. The elimination of the above proteins leaves us with few options for a mutually agreeable dinner: grilled cheese, steak, pork chops, or cereal.
I realize that it’s crazy to live 10 miles from the Atlantic Ocean and not enjoy its scrumptious bounty. Try as I might, however, I can’t get into shrimp (roaches of the sea) or oysters (nature’s filtration devices) or lobster (“Pick apart my exoskeleton, and then eat the guts inside!”) Like many people, I don’t have valid, objective reasons for my fish issues, but that’s why they’re called personal tastes, right?
I have made progress (as the article notes), and there are exceptions to my pickiness. I love some kinds of sushi (no baby octopi, please), fish and chips, and the seared tuna tacos at the place down the street. I figure that, if Bob has to deal with my big huge chronic illness, the least I can do is give a little when it comes to the things I can control.
There is one food we can agree on, though. After watching that episode of Dirty Jobs, neither of us is touching tilapia anytime soon.