I don’t consider myself a picky eater.
However, since I fully control the acquisition and preparation of everything edible where I live, it’s not surprising that I enjoy virtually everything I consume.
Speaking of food consumption, July is ideal for picnicking, provided you’ve got a shady, ant-free spot, the temperature’s in the mid-60s, and there’s breeze sufficient to discourage horseflies, yellowjackets, mosquitoes, seagulls and other flying pests from stopping by.
It’s been a while since I’ve been on a real picnic where the attendees unfurl a tablecloth, pour cold drinks out of an insulated jug, and carry their food in the sort of pick–a-nick basket Yogi Bear schemed to filch from tourists at Jellystone Park, often from right under the nose of Ranger Smith, the animated lawman whose incompetence rivaled that of Barney Fife.
I’ve been living a picnic-less existence for quite some time, and not just because of the difficulty I have getting off the ground once I’ve plunked myself down on it.
There are several picnic-related foods others enjoy which I do not. I’ve never liked hot dogs. Cheeseburgers are out, too. I detest cheese, particularly the melted kind. I’m not sure which is worse: its smell, its texture, or the sight of it, but regardless, if there’s cheese involved, I’m not ingesting it.
Condiments in general don’t do much for me. Friends and family know they can keep me from mooching their French Fries by simply covering them with ketchup. I have no use for mustard or relish either, and I’m not crazy about salad dressing. One of my pet peeves is attending an event where the salad comes pre- dressed. If I want something atop my salad I’ll apply it myself. All salad dressings, particularly creamy ones or those having the consistency of motor oil, are on my “do not consume” list. But the vilest add-on of them all is Mayonnaise. My aversion to that heinous substance stems from an incident some years ago which I cannot effectively forget, no matter how hard I try.
My brother and I were spending an idyllic Saturday with our grandparents at a beautiful state park, and at around mid-day we found a conveniently-located picnic table at which we could consume the lunch Grandma had lovingly prepared for us.
I’m not sure whether the mayo-slathered sandwiches had been in the sun too long or the loathsome spread itself had passed its “safe-to-eat” window, since expiration dates on food packages may not have existed back then. However, both my brother and I became violently ill shortly thereafter, creating a lifetime (and completely justifiable) aversion to that contemptible substance.
One picnic food I love is potato chips, but they’re got to be the right ones. Plain chips are fine, although I prefer rippled ones. Not the ones with the little ridges, though; they’re a little too salty. “Wavy” chips, the ones with the BIG ripples, are beyond heavenly! I particularly enjoy the huge, oak-leafed- sized ones at the top of the package. Unless, of course the person who packed the groceries did something dumb, like put the bananas or some similarly heavy item on top of the Wavy Chips bag.
However, with or without waves or ripples, flavored chips are a crime against humanity. Sour-cream-and-onion, ranch, barbecue, salt-and-vinegar, Jalapeno pepper and/or several even more repulsive varieties of chips are abominations which not only taste nasty, they make their consumer’s breath reminiscent of an open sewer. There’s only one decent flavor of potato chip: potato!
Hmmm. Upon further review, perhaps I am a picky eater.
I hereby retract the opening sentence of this essay.
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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