I’ve never felt particularly sorry for picky eaters. In truth they often confuse me. Being the kind of person who will happily eat almost anything I am served, I never understood being picky. Sure, there are a few things I don’t like… primarily licorice-flavored things and cheesecake (a dislike I could probably overcome, but refuse to. It’s so bad for you, why should I try it again only to find I now adore it?) But as much as I do really appreciate a nice expensive gourmet meal, I also have no problems with mac and cheese in a box, or boiled hotdogs in slices of bread instead of buns. Give me something I’ve never even heard of and I’m thrilled to try it. Give me something I used to dislike and I’ll gladly give it another chance (unless it’s cheesecake, of course). It seems incredibly weird to me that people might not like entire swaths of flavors like “mushrooms” or “onions” or “cheese.”

Being culinarily adventurous is part of my self image. So uh, what’s the deal with suddenly being a horribly picky eater? I mean, I know what the deal is. I have a proto-human growing inside me making hormones go haywire. But it never even occurred to me that I’d be a picky eater! I knew I’d have weird cravings (actually, to be completely honest, I thought I’d be getting a well balanced diet with every possible nutrient I’d need and I wouldn’t have much in the way of cravings). I didn’t think I’d develop incredibly strong dislikes for totally normal things like chicken, or inexplicably positive feelings towards potatoes.

But here I sit, with a bowl full of spanish rice and sausage (quite the experience 3 days ago!), wishing it were spaghetti with olive oil and garlic. And I’m beginning to understand and sympathize with those people who just plain old don’t like something.

And yes, I still want avocados and sardines on toast.