Picky Eater

Photo by Merve

Mom was in the kitchen, crying over an onion. Brother was perched on the trailer steps outside, dropping cap bombs on pill bugs. And I was stuck in the living room, eating dinner.

 I'd already wedged my carrot sticks between the couch cushions and snuck my glass of powdered milk into the bathroom. Mom never suspected if I poured it in the toilet just right, counted to ten, flushed, and then washed my hands. She liked the convenience of powdered milk, but I thought it tasted like chalk. 

I didn't like eating meat. I'd chew pot roast until my jaw ached, working that nasty gristle into a slimy glob too big to swallow.  

"What's taking so long?" Mom called out. "Your brother finished half an hour ago."      

Mom peered over the guppy tank. "Did you hear me?"

I nodded. There wasn't any space in my mouth for a word to squeeze out.      

And then the telephone rang. It was Mom's friend, Julie. While they chatted and laughed, I spat my nasty meat glob into my paper napkin and shoved it inside my pocket. It felt warm and squishy. 

"We'd love to stop by during Thanksgiving," Mom said, glancing over to check my progress.  

I scooted my strings beans under the couch. 

Too bad we didn't have a dog.     

Most families ate dinner together. We didn't. We ate in shifts. 

Mom explained that it wasn't that she didn't want us to eat as a family. Dad worked late, and feeding the kids first worked out better. After Brother and I went to bed, it was like they celebrated. Dad opened a bottle of wine, and together they cooked fancy recipes and smeared caviar on bruschetta.    

I didn't mind. Eating dinner and watching television at the same time was every kid's dream. 

During kid dinner, Brother and I set up our metal TV trays in front of the television. Mom brought us food like a hamburger patty, string beans, and mashed potatoes on a white dinner plate. She put three little white bowls on our trays: one filled with carrot and celery sticks, another with black olives and pickles, and the third with applesauce sprinkled with cinnamon. In the top right corner was a warm glass of powdered milk with clumps floating in it. Looking at all that food made me anxious. I couldn't leave until my plate was empty.    

One day, I came home from school desperate to use the bathroom. Poom greeted me at the sliding glass door and hissed when I tried to kick him out of the way. I wasn't in the mood to rumble with a grumpy cat. All I could think about was getting to the bathroom before my bladder exploded. I couldn't use the bathroom at school because it took away time from recess. Plus, the boys would chase the girls in there, making it hard to concentrate with all that squealing, and the fresh spit wads dangling from the ceiling looked like they could fall at any moment.

Mom sat on the couch with her arms folded, glaring at me, then at the coffee table, and back to me again. My stomach flip-flopped.

On the coffee table lay a collection of moldy, shriveled-up carrots, string beans, orange membranes, meatloaf, wheat toast, and everything else I'd hidden in and under the couch, all lined up like a rainbow.  

"I cleaned today," she said. "I vacuumed the couch and found all this rotten, wasted food. Why would you do this?" 

I crossed my legs to stop the urge. I couldn't make up a lie fast enough or blame it on Brother, who would eat anything on his plate, like a vacuum cleaner. All I could do was stare at Mom, trying to distract myself from the urge to pee right there in the middle of the living room floor.          

  "While you're wasting food, starving children in Africa are dying from malnutrition," Mom said, holding a fistful of limp carrot sticks. "They would give anything to eat what you have selfishly wasted. Children in Africa don't have the luxury of being a picky eaters like you." 

My bladder was on fire.

I didn't want children in Africa to starve to death, but it wasn't my fault Mom put too much food on my plate. I couldn't tell her I hated powdered milk and orange membranes or I'd rather drink grapefruit juice than pry it out of half a fruit. I liked canned vegetables better than fresh and white bread over brown. And when Mom brought Kentucky Fried Chicken home after Brother's baseball practice, I couldn't bring myself to gnaw a dead bird's leg. 

I promised Mom I'd never waste food again and ran to the bathroom. 

I still hid food. I just made sure it was gone before Mom cleaned the house.