OBTW: Don't try to 'fix' this discriminating diner

"No, thank you," I said as the bowl of sweet potatoes came my way for the second time during Thanksgiving dinner.

I'd allowed it to pass me by entirely the first time it came my way, quietly handing it to the next person without comment.

"You didn't take any the first time, either," said the person sitting next to me. "Don't you like them?"

"Oh, I'm just full right now," I said, hoping to dodge the inevitable.

"You can't be full already! You've barely eaten anything at all," said someone else at the table.

"No, really, I've had plenty of food," I said. "I'm stuffed!"

"Honestly, I don't know how you stay alive, as skinny as you are," grumbled another.

I've had this conversation, and others like it, many, many times in my life.

It's just another day in the life of a picky eater.

I'm not anorexic.

I don't dislike food and I don't dislike eating.

Put something on the table that I like and I will eat as much or more as anyone else.

Take potatoes.

Steamed, boiled, broiled, baked, fried, mashed, plain, with or without gravy, I could eat potatoes three times a day.

Or green beans.

The most wonderful vegetable on earth, raw or cooked. I could eat them three times a day, too.

And eggs. I love eggs. Breakfast is my favorite meal, even when it's served for dinner.

And bacon. Or corn. Or tomatoes. Onions, lettuce, broccoli, asparagus -- I love 'em all. Oh, and don't forget spinach. I love spinach, too.

So, I ask you -- why must I eat sweet potatoes? Or peas? Or lima beans?

Why, in fact, must I eat anything I don't like at all?

My parents were very permissive about food with my sister and me when we were very young.

It didn't take us long to figure out that if we made a little fuss, any food we weren't inclined to eat would be instantly removed and replaced with something we would eat.

In short order, the list of foods we would consume became quite small and in another short period of time, we each developed a skin rash as a result of vitamin deficiency.

That was the end of the food honeymoon.

From that day on, the battles lines were drawn -- with our parents on one side and the two of us on the other.

My parents' goal was to entice us (or force us, somehow) to eat a greater variety of things. Our goal was to resist.

"You're going to sit there until you eat it," was a daily threat.

I don't remember when my sister caved, but I never did.

Sit there all night?

Hah! Fine with me.

If that's what it took to get rid of the objectionable food on my plate, I'd sit there for however long it took.

If you think this was easy, think again.

I was taking my stand in an era long before microwave ovens.

Food I didn't want when it was served hot became even more objectionable when it was cold.

Peas already made me gag -- cold peas didn't change anything except to make me gag faster.

And let's not even discuss cold sweet potatoes.

By the time I left home at 18, I was thoroughly sick of fighting about food.

But, I thought to myself, that part of my life is over.

But I was wrong.

It turns out that there even more people than I ever imagined who are interested in what I will eat. Or, more correctly, what I will not eat.

Years ago, in a company-run cafeteria, I chose something from the menu that could most charitably described as "lacking taste."

I took a few bites, and pushed my plate away.

The woman sitting across the table from me asked me what was wrong.

I said, "It tastes terrible."

"But you're wasting food -- again!" she said.

We'd had this conversation more than once, and as before, she volunteered to eat it.

She apparently felt that finishing my meal was an act of either heroism or martyrdom. I've never been quite sure, but I'd say she had it pretty good. She must have hoped every day that I wouldn't like the food I chose, which would result in her having two lunches -- one she paid for and the other one I financed.

This time I told her she could have it if she paid for it. She didn't bother me after that.

People are forever trying to "help" me with my food "problem."

Please don't.

The one with the problem is not me -- it's you.

Worry about what's on your plate, not on mine.

And don't think that talking about it is going to change anything.

I won't "just try it" until I'm good and ready to do it, which may be never.

Don't tell me that I won't be able to taste the peas thrown into the tuna casserole because both of us know better. If you can't taste them, why are they in there?

If it isn't beef, pork, chicken, veal or a couple of different kinds of fish, I am not going to eat it.

Don't try to give me venison or beefalo -- I know the difference, and I don't like it.

In fact, don't try to fool me at all, because we won't be friends when it's over if you do.

Just let me eat what I like and everything will be fine.

And I'll extend you the same courtesy.

And if I die before you do, you will always have the satsifaction of saying, "She would have lived longer if only she'd eaten her peas."