Foolish Child Phobias and How to Get Over Them

I was a lucky kid when it came to food. Mum, until recently, wasn’t an outstanding cook, but she did well enough and threw in a bit of variety and we did eat out quite a bit and what with travelling to Asia quite often I’ve never had any problem with spicy food and things like that and find myself having problems with whoever does.

Up until recently there have been two foods which I’ve avoided throughout my life, even running hell-for-leather just to avoid eating them. I had some food phobias.

Olives were number one, perhaps my most all-pervading nemesis. I mean, everyone eats olives. Except me. Just about every Mediterranean dish has olives in it. Just about every other country has worked it in to something they do. It’s like a virus. And I didn’t want to catch it. I did actually eat some olives, way back in the day. I think I tried a few over the years and repulsed myself even more. I always refused them no matter what the dish was that contained the offending article. Until I got to Greece. There was a bowl with some Kalamata olives in it. I wasn’t offered them, they weren’t handed to me. But I had a standoff with the olives in my head.

‘You. Olives. I don’t like you much. I don’t think I do anyway.’ That’s me.

‘Have you ever tried me? I mean, recently? Your tastes might have changed.’ That’s the olive.

‘You’re being reasonable here. Too reasonable.’ Me.

‘Do it. Eat me. The only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you chew me up and spit out my pip.’ The big, green, purple, sour looking olive.

So I did it. I ate an olive, and it was bearable. I had another. I proceeded to eat half my weight in olives – I think by the time I stopped I was essentially retching from the saltiness. Now I’m home, and I eat whole jars of the things. It wasn’t too hard at all.

I think I understand why it’s so bearable now. A similar case happened with Sundried Tomatoes but a few days ago. It’s all about setting and presentation.

Mum has always eaten them, put them on pizza, whatever. I always thought they looked terrible and I’ve never liked plain tomatoes much, so I avoided them completely. I honestly don’t think I’d eaten one in my life when they’ve been perfectly available to me. Mum and I were making pizza. I was experimenting with things – mixing a little spice in the cheese, putting lemons on top. She got out the tomatoes. She left the room. I opened the packet to put them on her half of the pizza. I took a sniff – the marinade smelled awesome. Oily and herby. Good. I dipped my hand in and ate one. And another and another and another. It hasn’t stopped. I ate the whole jar in two days. I dipped bread in the marinade. The setting was cooking in my kitchen, alone, without fear of any judgement or any witness to my moment of acute curiosity. The presentation was a marinade I’m somewhat familiar with, a delicious smell to permeate it all.

I think discovering what is essentially a whole new flavour in life, completely different to anything you’ve ever come across, is an amazing experience. An amazing thing. It’s like being a kid again, except you’re old enough to appreciate exactly what it is you’re having. I know the sensation won’t last.

I’ve never recovered from the perfect steak. I had some sort of Wagyu, might have been a T-bone though I don’t really remember, along with some signature sauce at Catalina’s restaurant in Sydney. It was my Sister’s 21^st birthday night. It was perfect – perfectly cooked, perfectly presented, perfectly aged, everything. I’ve never recovered. I can’t remember the taste of the steak, only that it was worlds above everything I’ve had since. Some seem to come close but they’re not seared with the same nostalgia of that night. It’s disappointing really. I can conjure up the taste of just about anything before I eat it – I can imagine the taste so clearly that it’s practically on my tongue. But not that steak. Not even three years have passed. Achieving nirvana and losing it moments later leaves you with a whole shitload of regret. I can only hope that I’ll experience a steak as good as that one, commit it to some sort of taste memory - or at least be at peace with the state of steak in my life from now.

There are other ways to get used to food, to overcome food phobias. Mum bombarded me with her home grown spinach until I got used to it. I used to be repulsed by it, half thanks to society, half thanks to the fact that it’s a sourly bland vegetable. I think overcoming one or two of these phobias has instilled within me a desire to discover even more flavours. I’ve been cooking dinners and experimenting with just about everything I find in the cupboards. Luckily, everything so far has worked. I still have plenty to get over.

I would say something inspiring, like I’m going to open the fridge and open every jar and dip my hand into the miasmic goo and take a bite of whatever is in there, but I think that would be a very dangerous move in my fridge.

It’s a food graveyard. It’s a place where things that are already dead go to die.