An essay on green peas

During my time spent traveling the world, I have oftentimes been confronted with facing my worst fear, that of an eclectic menu provoking my picky-eating-itis. In the spirit of adventure, I have mustered the courage to take the high road and embrace the possibility that I might like some foods that I haven't heard of, or that I haven't tried yet. One example is foie gras (you know, the liver of a duck that has been overfed for the sole purpose of pulling out his fattened liver), which I tried in Sonoma, California with one of the top sommeliers in Wine Country. I liked it then, but tried it again in Boston at a Champagne tasting event -- it was jellied and much different. I spit it out. And then there are greens. Over the years I have learned to love asparagus, broccoli and spinach, but have never, and will never, love green peas. And yes, it is psychological.

***

Green peas consist of an unsavory inner mush and a curious texture of cratered skin that cause seriously alarm to my taste buds. During my childhood, my parents enforced the rule of eating everything on your plate. If everyone in my family was finished eating, I had to continue to sit at the table until my plate was clean of food. Green peas were my trigger to episodes of trauma. I could handle the putrid balls only when I flipped a spoonful of mashed potato on top in an effort to wash a few peas down.

The trauma occurred when my mother began to substitute potatoes with rice, a starch that does not accommodate the dunk method. This combination did not work well in my mouth, as rice does not mask the taste or the texture of peas. While my family laughed in the living room while viewing the pilot episode of the much-anticipated new sitcom, “The Brady Bunch,” I sat in the kitchen — alone with my peas.

Defiantly, I waited it out. No one came back to excuse me from the table. After a while, my desperation took hold of my senses. I rationalized that if I knocked a few green balls off my plate, nobody would be the wiser. Then I took my clever plan one step further and let a few peas fall to the floor. The concept seemed genius to my six-year-old self.

When I signaled my parents in to release me from the dinner table, I was not prepared for the outburst that traumatized me for a lifetime. I was picked up and thrown into my bed for the night — with a handful of peas thrown in with me. I was loudly instructed to eat every last one of them.

My parents left me pea-debilitated.