“Know thyself”

                                    –Someone Ancient

I’ve been trying to figure myself out for 32 years. I’ve had a few missteps along the way­ (can you say Nirvana-inspired flannel?), but I’m making progress.

That said, I still have a ways to go. For instance, each month I am convinced that my husband has morphed into the devil spawn, only to discover that I have PMS … again. And it isn’t obvious to me that I’m steam cleaning the carpet and mending socks because I’m trying to avoid a writing assignment. And for some reason, I’ve spent a decade ordering the grisly Bourbon Chicken at the mall, even though it always makes me feel as if I’ve consumed a vat of petroleum jelly.

“God, this is so disgusting,” I say, flicking away the bits of yellowy fat.

“Then why do you always order it?” asks Ray, who happily devours his own Bourbon bites, fat globules and all.

Maybe eating Food Court Bourbon Chicken is my penance for mowing down that kitten along HWY 67 in ’05. Or maybe I just don’t know myself all that well.

My daughter, on the other hand, seems to have a firm grasp on her likes and dislikes, especially when it comes to food. Whenever she makes a request, she always adds “with no ickies” as if I was most certainly going to sprinkle her macaroni with a dozen ickies before serving it to her.

You see, ickies fall into a rather large category of perfectly edible items, including anything green and flecky (basil), black and beady (pepper), translucent (onion), or any piece of non-icky food that appears suspicious. For example, a hair-like string of cheese hanging from a slice of pizza is icky. The slightest remnant of bread crust also falls into the amorphous icky category. Sometimes I can remove the offending icky without too much trauma, but often the contamination spreads too quickly and the entire plate must be discarded.

My mother­­–an exceptional cook–was deeply offended the first time my daughter informed her that the scrambled eggs she lovingly prepared were covered with ickies (Mom had sprinkled cheese on Ava’s scrambled eggs and while Ava loves scrambled eggs and cheddar cheese, she does not love it when they mate).

“Just eat it,” Mom said.

“No. It’s icky!” whined Ava.

“Well, too bad. Eat it anyway.”

Ava cried and I stepped in, unable to bear the thought that my child was developing an unhealthy relationship to food way too soon. 

“I’ll just make her some plain eggs,” I said.

“You can’t give her everything she wants!”

I don’t let her disrespect adults or pull the tails of small animals, and I only let her eat from the floor like our cat once. But I do handpick the vanilla-bean flecks from her ice cream. Too much? Maybe, but here’s the thing: my little apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

My husband likes to eat candy corn, but not the white tips, and he only eats green beans canned by the Green Giant. I only eat a brownie’s crusty edge, and I can’t tolerate sugar on fresh fruit. Ava eats the Oreo’s icing, and she insists that her Pop-Tart be de-edged before she eats it (if you’re wondering, edges are ickies too). I could go on, but then my special family would never get another invitation for dinner.

In the end, it all boils down to a matter of taste, not faulty parenting. By respecting my daughter’s desire to have an icky-free meal, I helping to foster her sense of self. I’m honoring her individuality. Maybe by the time she’s 32, she’ll at least know to steer clear of the Bourbon Chicken.

Eating Grammie's ickies in Eastern Washington