Caving to the Craving

I didn’t, but man, it was tough.

Something happens to my brain in May. New produce starts appearing and my brain decides it is bored with those same old apples, oranges, pears and bananas. There is “summer” fruit in the supermarkets, imported of course, and it taunts me so very much.

I almost bought a hunk of watermelon today, but thought better of it and tore myself away. I knew it must have travelled from California and was probably bland and watery and tasteless . Then I fondled peaches, some imported muskmelon and peered sceptically at strawberries. I wanted them all, just not these ones. I wanted local produce, picked at the peak of freshness and sold to me by a cheery farmer. Hey Californians – does the fruit there taste bland and nasty or is it the travelling that makes it so unappealing? I mean, if I was in Cali, this would be “local” produce.

There will be strawberries in a few weeks. Raspberries after that. Some early blueberries maybe. Then apricots, peaches, melons, oh my. But each melon must have its time, and May is not melon time. May is, unfortunately, not time for anything, but those same apples, pears and bananas.

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Cravings and Squicks

Warning – this post contains discussion of vomiting.

Food, being, ideally, a sensual pleasure, is one of those things that we either really love or really abhor. Individual foods, I mean.

As children, we go through phases where we dislike different things, based on taste, texture or smell. As we age, those tastes usually adapt and progress, and we willingly eat spinach or beans or whatever food it is we hated so ardently in our youth.

The one exception to this is when food becomes associated with a traumatic event, particularly something physically traumatic like a serious illness. Watching it all come back up can turn us off from ever desiring a particular food again.

When I was a kid, my Mom was a big fan of cream of tomato soup. She always added additional milk to our soup, in part to cool it and additionally to make it creamier. Except one day, the soup was too hot and the milk curdled, although I didn’t know it at first spoonful. Haven’t been able to eat cream of tomato soup since then. I can’t, to be completely honest, even watch other people eat it, especially if they break crackers into it.

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