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FEAR FACTORcibophobia: n. fear of food

11/2011

Spiel

FeaturesContents

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Do I Dare toEat a Peach?by Bill MagritySed ut perspiciatis unde omnis iste natus error sit voluptatem accusantium doloremque laudantium, totam rem aperiam, eaque ipsa quae ab illo inventore veritatis et quasi architec-to beatae vitae dicta sunt explicabo.

How Much isToo Much?by Luna LovegoodNemo enim ipsam volup-tatem quia voluptas sit aspernatur aut odit aut fugit, sed quia consequun-tur magni dolores eos qui ratione voluptatem sequi nesciunt

Eat It. Just Eat It.by Carol NicknackUt enim ad minima ve-niam, quis nostrum exer-citationem ullam corporis suscipit laboriosam, nisi ut aliquid ex ea commodi consequatur?

Life on a Yachtby Timmy JuniorNeque porro quisquam est, qui dolorem ipsum quia dolor sit amet, con-sectetur, adipisci velit, sed quia non numquam eius modi tempora incidunt ut labore et dolore magnam aliquam quaerat volupta-tem.

I Wouldn’t DoThat if I Were You.by Sally YepQuis autem vel eum iure reprehenderit qui in ea voluptate velit esse quam nihil molestiae consequa-tur, vel illum qui dolorem eum fugiat quo voluptas nulla pariatur?

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DepartmentsPriceless Money Tipsby Candy CanefordAt vero eos et accusamus et iusto odio dignissimos ducimus qui blanditiis praesentium voluptatum.

It’s An Emergencyby Luella ComptonEt harum quidem rerum facilis est et expedita distinctio.

Sisters Make the Big Bucksby Tiffany AngerbauerNam libero tempore, cum soluta nobis est eligendi optio cumque nihil impedit quo minus id quod maxime placeat facere possimus.

City Living at It’s Bestby Lorence FlorenceTemporibus autem quibusdam et aut offi ciis debitis aut rerum necessitati-bus saepe eveniet.

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This & That A guide to organizing your belongings.

Why Not Be a Clown Behind the scenes stories of professional clowns.

Growing Up How kids cope with bullying and being alone at school.

Finders Keepers Antique collecting isn’t just a hobby.

Not What You Think Test your IQ and compare it to celebrities.

6On The Money

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Pricele$$ TipsTeach your kids about money, and help put them on the road to handling money responsibly.

When it comes to teach-ing kids about money, the sooner the better.Up until they start earning a living, and sometimes well beyond that, kids are apt to spend money like it grows on trees. This lesson will help you put your children on the road to handling money responsibly.

Long before most chil-dren can add or subtract, they become aware of the concept of money. Any 4-year-old knows where their parents get money - the ATM, of course. Understanding that parents must work for their money requires a more mature mind, and even then, the learning process has its wrinkles. For example, once he came to understand that his father worked for a living, a 5-year-old asked, “How was work today?” “Fine,” the father replied. The child then asked, “Did you get the money?”

Seeds planted early bear fruit later.It’s important to work on your child’s fi nancial awareness early on, for once they’re teenagers, they are less likely to heed your sage advice. Besides, they’re busy doing other things - like spending money.

An allowance can be an effective teaching tool.When your kids are young, giving them small amounts of money helps them prepare for the day when the numbers will get bigger.

Teenagers and college-age kids have bigger responsibilities.Checking accounts, credit cards and debt are as elemental to the college experience as books and keg parties. Teaching high-schoolers about banking and credit will make them more savvy when they leave the nest.

Even investing should be learned early.High schoolers can and should be taught about using real money.

Once they learn how money works, children often display an instinc-tive conservatism.Instant gratifi cation aside, once they learn they can buy things they want with money - e.g., candy, toys - many chil-dren will begin hoarding every nickel they can get their hands on. How this urge is channeled can determine what kind of fi nancial manager your child will be as an adult.

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After teaching your children the hard lessons, show them the rewards of self-control.

At The Moment

Are You Prepared?Emergency Preparedness isn’t just for the Mormons. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis - they hap-pen. But let’s be realistic. A job loss in a down economy can be an emergency, too.

BABY STEPSto help you

get started:

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BakingIngredients

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Long Term Foods


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The Lowdown

A Dream Come TrueHow a Farmer’s Market booth changed these sisters’ lives.

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From poor college student to thriving small business owner in literally months - I never knew this little

idea could turn out to be a dream come true.

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Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisic-ing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercita-tion ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui offi cia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Lo-rem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor inci-didunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nos-trud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisic-ing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercita-tion ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui offi cia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nos-trud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo.

Do I Dare to Eat a

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Do I Dare to Eat a

BY Bill Magrity ILLUSTRATIONS BY Hayley Castle

Because as a kid, I wouldn’t go near one. Or a cheeseburger. Or soup. Or anything that had touched a pickle. My parents said I was the fi nickiest child they’d ever seen, and our meals together gave new meaning to the phrase “food fi ght.” So now that I’m thinking about starting a family of my own, I decided it was time to fi gure out why I used to be such a picky eater.

I’VE NEVER EATEN A PICKLE, at least not on purpose. It’s not a claim I make with pride, though it comes up somewhat often, es-pecially in the summer months. Backyard-beer-and-burger-fl ip season. For much of my life, such occasions were actually harrowing affairs, hardly condu-cive to the relaxation for which they were purposed. The stress typically kicked in at the end of hour one, just as the congre-gants moved to the fi xings table.

The sun might shine and the birds might sing. A piñata might even hang in the yard. But the spread would stretch out like a minefi eld. Plates stacked with onions, tomatoes, and lettuce, items that, to my mind, had no more business on a burger than peanut butter. Bowls fi lled with potato salad and coleslaw, two concoctions whose very names I preferred not to let pass my lips. For dessert, the dreaded wa-termelon. My only solace would come when the chef called, “Who wants cheese on their burger?” at which point, if I was lucky, I’d

spot a fi ve-year-old wearing my same look of disgust. A com-patriot. We’d get our burgers fi rst—less time was spent in their construction—then go eat at the swing set. “You know,” I’d explain, “I’ve never eaten a pickle, at least not on purpose.” On one such occasion a friend’s son got curious. “Does that mean you’ve had one on ac-cident?” he asked sarcastically. “Actually, your father once snuck four pickle slices and some mustard on a hamburger he fi xed for me. It was at a cookout shortly after we got out

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My mom served

dinner on steel caf-

eteria trays purchased at an Army

surplus store. That

allowed her to seg-regate my food. She’d

sprinkle Jell-O mix on banana

slices to make them seem close to candy.

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chewing and swallowing each bite, a second, internal smelling process will take place every time he exhales. This informa-tion will be more detailed than that from the tongue, which can read only the fi ve basic tastes: salty, sweet, sour, bitter, and the newly discovered, ever-nebulous umami. The news will combine in the brain and be read as distinct fl avors. He’ll go about the rest of his day with a good supply of energy and remember that meal as a very wonderfully fi ne thing. Now picture the caveman eating at Austin’s Counter Cafe, rightfully considered home to the city’s best burger. Sitting next to him and regarding an identical lunch is a member of that class of Austinite that considers itself the town’s most evolved: the trendy hipster. (Though they share the same bedhead and beard, the hipster will be identifi able by the pair of Ray-Bans folded next to his plate.) His relationship with the burger will be much more complicated. Assuming his parents were middle- to upper-class, he’s at least one generation removed from foods of necessity, so he’s known only the luxury of choice. If he grew up in the seventies or eighties, his earliest exposure to vegetables was probably via Del Monte and Green Giant, black-magic alchemists who, through canning and freezing, confused an entire nation on the meaning of “garden fresh.” If he suffered from chronic ear infections as a kid, his chorda tympani may have been damaged and his sense of taste permanently altered. Or he may even be a supertaster, one of that quarter of the populace whose tongues can have twice as many taste receptors as the average eater’s. In that case, every taste will be magni-fi ed, particularly the bitter ones. Given all the variables, if the hipster chooses to leave everything off his meat patty but the bun, there’d be plenty of potential reasons why. As the experts ticked off the things that typically go wrong, they sounded as if they had had access to my childhood scrapbooks. My fi rst extended hospital stay came shortly before I turned three, during a frightful bout with epiglottitis. Because of a virus, my throat

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I say that with intimate author-ity. I grew up the worst eater I’d ever heard of, the kid that my friends’ parents always sent home at suppertime, a sufferer of bizarre food phobias that were absolutely nonnegotiable. I’d refuse to eat cheese, except on pizza, and then only with pepper-oni. Mac and cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches were out. By a similar logic, french fries were in but mashed potatoes were out. Condiments were unthinkable, and so too soup, fruit, and any vegetable that wasn’t corn. Those few foods I did eat could never be allowed to touch on the plate; “casserole” was the dirtiest word I could think of. I would eat a peanut butter sandwich but had no use for jelly and would refuse to take a bite within an inch of the crust. Chicken was fi ne, turkey was not, and fi sh was just weird. Essentially, all I ate will-ingly was plain-and-dry hot dogs and burgers, breakfast cereal with “sugar” in bold letters on the box, and anything with Chef Boyardee’s picture on the label. Or, rather, almost anything. I didn’t fully trust the shape of his ravioli; something told me cheese might be lurking within. Such proclivities came at a cost. In elementary school, I was regularly disciplined for not eating enough of my lunch, sequestered to the “baby table,” where talking was forbidden and cafeteria monitors would loom overhead, pushing me to eat. When summer came, my parents would no doubt have loved to ship me off to camp but didn’t out of a legitimate fear that I’d starve. That was fi ne by me. I was similarly terrifi ed that some camp counselor would force me to drink iced tea.

At home, my parents did what they could but never had much heart for the battle. According to my dad, the opening skirmish was over a sweet potato, when I was two. Though I remember nothing of the encounter, my guess is—given that my parents were children of the Depression and were neither adventuresome eaters nor particularly adept in the kitchen—that the sweet potato had been boiled, probably for longer than it needed to be. I looked at it and told him that I didn’t eat those. He responded that this was the fi rst sweet potato I’d seen. At his strong insistence I took a bite, then airmailed it onto his chin.

IMAGINE A CAVEMAN is eyeballing a hamburger. His reaction will be as instinctual as going to the bathroom or looking for love. The sight and smell will alert his brain that proteins and calories are available. With the fi rst bite, chemical reactions between the burger’s ingredients and taste receptors in his tongue will send messages through his nervous system, primarily the chorda tympani nerve, which stretches around his eardrum to the stem of his brain. If there’s a tomato on it, or maybe some ketchup, he’ll get a sweet taste, which upon arrival upstairs will trigger a small dopamine release. His body will read that as good news. The same will happen with the salty fat in the meat and cheese. But if by chance there’s some arugula onboard, a bitter taste will register, signifi er of potential poison. He’ll likely spit that out and pick it off the rest of the burger. As he continues,

The thought of a gi-

ant peach growing in

my yard that I would be forced to

eat in order to get away

from my evil aunts

terrifi ed me. I’d rather

stick to chores and

two screechy ladies.

James, you are a very brave soul.

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was closing shut, producing the kind of prolonged, painful eating trauma that the shrinks and neuroscientists said could lead a kid to reject a whole host of foods. But the sole connec-tion my parents ever made to that event and my diet was of a different sort: They cited it as an example of how obstinate I could be. The hospital stay had been cut short because I wouldn’t eat the food. My folks got tired of bringing me Spaghetti-O’s. As my teen years approached, every meal became a battle of

wills. My parents would tell me to eat, I would refuse, and they’d wait me out. My brothers would fi nish dinner and be excused to their rooms before I could sneak them my green beans. The family dog, a supremely overfed basset hound named Bobo who was my greatest ally in such matters, would be shooed to the garage. While Mom cleaned the kitchen, I’d remain at the table. Eventually she’d sit and watch me, sometimes for as long as an hour. She never turned cruel. One doctor I talked to described

parents who tell their children, “If you don’t want it for dinner, you’ll have it for breakfast,” then put the plate in the fridge to serve it again in the morning. That sounds like torture, and that didn’t happen. Instead, I’d ultimately give in, choke down my two green beans, and wash off my plate. We ate a lot of fried bologna sandwiches and pancakes made with Bisquick and water when there was no milk in the house. A favorite among us three boys was something my dad called

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There are major categories of things that a� ect how much pleasure we take from food. One is

sensory, and that’s where the supertasters fi t in. We don’t all taste things the same way. That’s

hardwired. The other is experience, the pathologies you have encountered. That is all learned.

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“barbecued hot dog casserole,” which consisted of butterfl ied foot-long wieners spread out in a glass dish, bathed in a full jar of hickory sauce, and baked. I’d always thought that eating a condiment and a casserole represented growth. The great lesson from her wasn’t just to try food but to experience it. Well-mannered as she was, she wasn’t above dropping her fork at a satisfying bite and grunting loudly, “Oh, wow!” And though she took an immigrant’s pride in her Ameri-can citizenship, she never let go of an ounce of her Spanishness. “In Spain,” she explained, in an accent that grew thicker as she got older, “food is as big a part of who we are as Picasso or Gaudí.” Gradually, because Carlos had been a picky eater too—he and I didn’t fully bond until he introduced me to the magic of late-night ketchup-only Whoppers at UT—she started bringing out her native dishes. Paella made with saffron sent by one of her sisters. White almond gazpacho with frozen green grapes sunken in and topped with a dollop of aioli. She cleaned out the fridge like her mother had, by making what she called a “tortilla apartment building”: four egg omelets, each with a different “roommate,” like potatoes, mushrooms, spinach, and shallots. She’d stack them one on top of the other, cover them with a simple red sauce, then cut slices, like a warm, gooey cake.

CHEF ANDREW ZIMMERN is the co-creator and star of a program on the Travel Channel called Bizarre Foods With Andrew Zimmern. For six seasons, he’s played the part of the cheerfully daring food tourist, landing each week in a new spot on the globe to sample local staples, always something that would shock any eater back at his Minneapolis home. He’s become a devotee, for instance, of spoiled foods. “Whether it’s fermented skate wing in Japan, or hákarl [fermented shark] in Iceland, or stinkhead in Alaska, fermented and rancid foods are eaten all over the world,” he told me. He’s had bat meat on three continents. “Fruit bats are actually really clean. You can

even eat all the innards because they have a very small diet in a very-small-ranging area.” He once stood with members of the Masai tribe in a corral inside the Ngorongoro Crater, in Tanzania, drinking cow’s blood directly from the source. “That was a big jump,” he humbly but oddly admitted. The segments are essentially snuff fi lms for picky eaters, the kind of TV that would have once given me nightmares. “It’s been amazing to watch my gag refl ex get less responsive,” he said over the phone after a weekend exploring Montreal’s fi nest seal meat dishes. “I was certainly more trepidatious about food when I started. But when you taste something that at fi rst scares you, that you don’t understand or just don’t want to eat—maybe you’ve had a bad ver-sion of it before—if it’s good, then you learn to stop practicing contempt before intense investigation.” Zimmern the world traveler blames limited diets on cultural forces. “I’ve been running a kind of experiment with my son, who’s six. I’ve tried to get to him before the cultural guardians can. He had a book called Yummy Yucky, and it associated worms with yucky. So he won’t eat worms, which is very interesting to me. Because he loves crickets and june bugs and all of the other funky little things that are edible in our garden in the summertime. Sometimes we just sit and eat them off the ground.”Zimmern makes meals in his household sound un-comfortably close to meals on his show. But as-suming he’s not telling his son that he can’t go inside until he fi nishes his bugs, his experiment isn’t far from the fi x suggested by every expert I consulted on getting past picky eating: Kids learn to enjoy food from parents who model—not

demand—healthy eating habits. There’s no way to predict how a child will react to a food; identi-cal twins can have completely different diets. But as soon as a parent tells a kid that his pref-erence is something that needs a lot ofcorrecting.

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