It’s My Loss: Fear of “Real” Food

I was driving home from our cottage, about 100 miles north of home. The rolling fields with recent crew cuts and more cows than I could ever count made me realize that I’m missing out on one of the joys of life.

I don’t like fresh “real” food.   When a friend offers me a sun-ripened tomato from his garden and says how much he looks forward to eating them freshly picked, I can’t relate.  The only tomatoes I like are crushed beyond recognition in a smooth marinara sauce, hidden under a thick layer of cheese.

It’s my loss and I would love to just be able to get over it.  So many people really enjoy the art of a talented chef or fresh finds in a farmer’s market   I wish I could be one of them.

I am a picky eater. The history of this is detailed in an earlier post:  Secrets of a Picky Eater

Texture is a big part of the problem.    Real food is unpredictable and often has mixed textures of firm and mushy.  Fear of the unknown is another big issue.   I imagine taking a bite of something and being unable to swallow.  Real food could have worms in it or other hidden horrors.

I know these fears are unfounded, but it doesn’t help me to enjoy the fruits of nature’s bounty.

My husband wanted to stop at a restaurant.   I would much rather stop at a convenience store to pick up something quick.  Restaurant meals prolong the act of eating.  I suffered through many unpleasant restaurant meals in my childhood and the scars are still with me.  I’m happier to satisfy my hunger in the most-expedient way with predictable packaged, processed foods.   I know what to expect from them.

As you might imagine, I’m not much for home cooking either.  When one compares the preparation time with the time it takes to eat and clean up, it doesn’t seem worth it.  I can tolerate my own cooking, but dread an invitation to a dinner party or picnic.   Then there are restaurants that specialize in “home cookin’.” When they omit the g, I know they are serious about it.  Those places are picky eaters’ hell

So I was feeling a bit sad for myself last night. I realize that I am missing out on something wonderful.   I am denying myself one of life’s great pleasures.   I reject the banquet to eat garbage.

I have made some progress since childhood.  I eat bananas and berries and celery, but I would never choose those things over a protein bar or a bag of pretzels.  I want to try harder to make better food choices and to taste new things.   In slow, cautious steps, I hope to make changes one unpredictable bite at a time.   I want to know what I am missing.



Flashback Friday – My Yoke is Easy? (7/18/2013)

This one is from my other blog: A Mary Soul in a Martha World.

A Mary Soul in a Martha World

This is from my journal on 7/18/2013.  It was a very difficult time.  My husband and I were moving to a smaller, more accessible home because of his Parkinson’s disease.  He was not able to help much with the move.  I was overwhelmed and also experiencing great stress at work since our company had been recently sold.  I made things harder than they were.

So yesterday’s gospel, “My yoke is easy, my burden is light,” was like a slap in the face.  How can that be true?  It doesn’t seem true for me.

If it is true that means that the yoke I’m in is not of God or that it doesn’t fit right, or that I’m struggling too much and causing chafing or that I’m not keeping pace with the other side.

My conclusion is that, YES things are hard right now, but I make them harder.  I don’t…

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It Never Happens the Way We Think It Will Happen

Imagining the worst; hoping for the best. Great post.

Teri Carter's Library

imagesI am walking my dog when it happens. The woman does not see me. The woman does not see my dog. The woman points her car my way and guns it, and when I see she doesn’t see me—doesn’t see my bright blue shirt nor my arm waving ‘hello neighbor’ in the air nor my big yellow lab standing at the side of her driveway—I dive to my right and the bumper of her car clips my hip and I tumble down and over the newly-mowed grass of her lawn and the next thing I know I’m lying there, just lying there, pushing to get up and looking at my dog looking down at me with her tail wagging, wagging wagging wagging. The dog licks my hand. We are alive, the dog seems to say. We are okay.

For the last decade I’ve been walking my dogs in a downtown…

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Sharing What Is Most Personal

I am shy.  I doubt myself.   Over the past 10 years, I’ve been journaling and writing poetry, songs, rants.    It’s therapeutic.    Some of it may be creative or inspiring.   Most of this work is hidden in notebooks and boxes, and of course in my head.

I went back and read some journals from years ago.  My handwriting was prettier then. Deep hurts have been amazingly easy to forget    I have greater compassion now for the person I used to be

What are these ideas for if not to be shared?    So I am moving past the fear of criticism and rejection and ridicule to share what I have written and who I am.   Please be kind.image