When I first met my boyfriend Kyle, things seemed great. We got along instantly, talked for hours about our similar interests, and shared the same double major. We immediately started dating exclusively; in fact, he jokingly tagged our anniversary as the first time we ever spoke to each other. For a while, I could not have been happier. That is, until I had him over for dinner.
Now let me say with full disclosure that I am the kind of person who likes to add a culinary twist to her oatmeal every morning. I grew up in a family where tapas nights and Mediterranean specialties were a regular feature.
I've been fortunate enough to travel and taste the world over, and I've challenged myself with ethnic fare ranging from Swedish moose accompanied by layered herring and potatoes to unrecognizable forms of Japanese sushi.
That's not to say I don't have my gastronomic restrictions either. I steer clear if it's organs, bugs or sold in a pet store. I don't like to get within ten feet of any kind of goat cheese and, as a philosophy major with a concentration in environmental ethics, I'm highly conscious of my omnivorous status.
But my limitations were nothing compared to the man I was dating. Kyle, I soon discovered, had a diet that stretched from plain peanut butter sandwiches to pasta with unadulterated marinara sauce. In between were carrots, apples and (barely-tolerated, though imbibed to keep it balanced) V8.
To Kyle, curry was a dirty word. The first time we went out for breakfast, he ordered a plain sesame-seed bagel. While I abhorred goat cheese, he abhorred every kind of cheese. The only bananas he would eat were still green on the vine; the only food he'd go out for was pizza. He proclaimed his broad distaste for sauces, and turned up his nose at my supper of basil-flecked ravioli and sautéed kale.
I quickly realized we were in for some trouble. While I'm well aware one should never go into a relationship hoping to change their partner, I was willing to risk it all. Something needed to be done. I knew there would be no quick fix to this situation, but I devised a plan to get Kyle to taste things.
I tried every method I could think of, from blunt conversation that made me sound like my therapist (Honey, you're in a safe place, now tell me why you won't eat anything?"") to poutiness when he refused my chocolate-chip cookies (they had nuts in them). Nothing seemed to work.
I soon discovered it was I who had a choice to make. Could I stay in a relationship that had this kind of limitation? Could I forgo the excitement of romantic candle-lit - or any kind - of dinners? Could I really be with a man who refused freshly- baked chocolate-chip cookies? The good news is Kyle is working with me - slowly but surely.
We're both set in our ways, so the transformation hasn't come easily. Now, I take it as a sign of his heartfelt devotion when he agrees to try my apple crisp or sample a new kind of vegetable. In the end, I think we've both learned something. I've discovered a new relationship deal-breaker, and he's discovered gravy.
