Food Rules

I am not the most adventurous of eaters. Growing up, I took PB&J or bologna sandwiches to school for lunch, and the bill of fare at home was most likely a roasted chicken or meatloaf. Every once in a while, my mother would get "creative" and make chicken smothered in cream of mushroom soup in the crockpot or some kind of casserole topped with crushed potato chips. Where was Bobby Flay when we needed him?

When I would be invited out to dinner with a friend of mine whose mother served such exotic things as chicken consomme or fillet mignon, I would be told to eat whatever I was given or order whatever my friend ordered. Apparently, my parents lived in fear that I would throw caution to the wind, and order the thirty pound lobster stuffed with caviar. Meanwhile, I was anxiously scanning the menu for fried chicken in a basket and praying I could telepathically transmit this wish to my friend.

Although I've gotten better as I've gotten older, and consomme no longer scares me, there are still things that contain a huge "ick factor" and I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.

Tim, despite his claims to the contrary, also has food rules. We can't help it. We both grew up in a town where meat is cooked until it's grey, veggies until they are limp and potatoes were the side dish. Sadly though, most of Tim's rules involve vegetables. Different rules, same deep, scarring, psychological issues.

And that is how, last Friday night, Tim and I ended up haggling over the seven-item antipasto platter we had decided to split for dinner.

We had stumbled upon a great little place near Lincoln Center, and had only about a half hour to wolf something down before the show there (South Pacific) started. The antipasto bar seemed like the perfect solution, and with over thirty million items to choose from, surely we could agree on a mere seven. Not really.

I suggested eggplant Parmesan, he shuddered and countered with squid.

You mean the tentacle things with the suction cups still attached? Ick. I don't think so. Rule number one of my food rules clearly states: No food that looks like it did when it was alive. If it can wave at me from the plate, I don't eat it. Try again.

He pointed to a shellfish platter.

Um. Nooooo. That violates at least four food rules. In my experience, most seafood is either waving, staring or actively fighting you. If you need special "tools" to dismember your meal, or worse yet, if you simply ingest the entire animal, lock, stock and feet, it's pretty much a no-go for me, and he knows this.

But two can play the "I know you won't eat this, but I'm going to stupidly suggest it anyway" game. I pointed to the roasted asparagus.

He eyed the seafood longingly, but wisely held his tongue.

I briefly considered the snow peas, but didn't have the heart to even point in their direction.

After a series of negotiations that would have made Winston Churchill proud, we each selected one item just for us and compromised on the remaining five (and by compromise, I mean I mostly got to choose).

Of course, the food rules had to be strictly adhered to . For example, rule number two: no raw food (we both have that rule). I don't care how trendy it is or how cute and artsy they make it look, it is still basically bait. I can't look at sushi without thinking of the scene in Jaws when Roy Scheider is throwing bucketsfull of chum over the side of the boat to attract the shark. I may be odd, but really nothing about that scene made me hungry.

A few years ago, someone sent us a complementary appetizer: ahi tuna tartare. Dismayed, we both poked at it to see if we could revive it enough to swim back off the plate under its own steam and relieve us of the pressure to choke some of it down. When the CPR failed, we tried the age-old trick of moving it around the plate and trying to hide it under the seaweed accompaniment (double ick--chum and ocean weeds).

And then there is rule number five: No food that has absolutely, positively no taste by itself, like tofu, especially when I could be ordering chocolate cake instead. I might just as well drench my wicker porch set in balsamic vinegar. The taste would be the same and I know it would have better texture.

Conversely, there is rule number eight: Nothing too spicy. Hot flashes and hot food are not a good combo. I generally like to avoid ending my meal with a trip to the emergency room to treat dehydration.

Tim has avoided certain spices since two episodes years ago. One involved half a teaspoon of curry in an entire pan of chicken divan that I made before we set out on a four-hour car trip. The trip actually took three and a half hours, but that was only because we went ninety miles an hour between rest stops and didn't come to a complete stop before Tim was off and running. Had I known the effect, I would have bought stock in Charmin.

The second was when Tim, mistaking the deadly kim-chee for a harmless pig in a blanket, took a big 'ole bite...and then his head exploded. The other people in the restaurant loved the show, but not one of them volunteered the helpful info that he should be eating bread or rice to put out the fire instead of shoving the fire hose down his throat.

Despite all the rules though, we did manage to end up with enough to eat, and were both happy as clams (which I wouldn't eat since it violates rules three, four and six -- no whole animals and nothing slimy or chewier than a piece of bazooka).