It occurs to me that it has been some time since I began this blog. Given my usual short attention span, it is quite miraculous that I am still at it six months later. I’ve been reading over some of my old entries and musing upon whether I have properly embraced my philosophy of Trying Again. Don’t get me wrong, I have been pleasantly surprised (or at least less unpleasantly surprised than I expected) by pretty much everything I’ve re-assessed. Peanut butter did not make me vomit. Going to the football was kind of fun. I haven’t even had any recurring nightmares from the horror film (more on that in an upcoming post, actually).
But still. I’d had the vague idea that all of this effort would make me more open to the rich tapestry of life. I would be adventurous and carefree! I would probably acquire a pith helmet from somewhere and go on expeditions.
Bring me a time machine and do not talk to me about steampunk.
Instead, I am slightly more open to trying different foods. It’s a start.
Now, I love Vegemite. I am a proud Australian. I am susceptible enough to advertising to connect these two pieces of information. For many, many years, I refused to let any imitations (Marmite, Mightymite, whatever Dick Smith’s no doubt hilariously named version happens to be) pass my lips. They were WRONG and BAD and NOT TO BE TRUSTED.
However, when A Certain Young Man Of My Acquaintance did the shopping and returned home with Mightymite instead of Vegemite (I believe it was on special), I had a choice. I could cling to the point of view I’d established circa 1989 (I was given what I thought was a Vegemite sandwich at my friend Carlie’s house. IT WAS NOT VEGEMITE) or I could attempt to act like an adult and just eat the damn yeast extract. (Adulthood has to start somewhere.) As I’ve concluded so many times before – it was fine. It was just different – sweeter, and a bit jammier in texture.
(I am not going to comment about the whole New Vegemite debacle as it is not 2009.)
Resigning myself to the fact that many of my tastebuds had died off, I threw caution to the wind. I ate chocolate with actual nuts in it of my own free will. I tried rocky road. I ate a very coriander-heavy curry (I have always been quite anti-coriander). The results varied from edible to actively delicious (let the record indicate that I like coriander now). Frankly, it was a bit disappointing. I had hoped to be right about something.
I consoled myself that I had, in some way, won by the experience, and this cheered me up. Winning is even better than being right! I have even, post Peanut Day, voluntarily eaten peanut butter. No, I haven’t had a change of heart – it is still nasty stuff – but it’s been downgraded from kryptonite to snot or something. Now, when A Certain Young Man Of My Acquaintance taunts me cruelly by eating his devil butter from the jar, threatening me with a spoon of the dreaded stuff and attempting to breathe its foul scent in my direction, I am able to calmly relieve him of his spoon, have a taste, and pronounce it perfectly delicious.
It is a lie, but it is a victorious lie.
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Amy Tries Again 