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Carol Perkins: A Matter of Taste

An Epicurean Rant: "I know some people in my family think I'm strange about some of my food habits, but what they think are my peculiarities, I don't find peculiar at all. It's just a matter of taste." - CAROL PERKINS. And all the people said, "Amen, Carol Sullivan Perkins!" She likes HOT Coffee. HOT Fried Chicken. HOT Hotdogs. Loathes Milk, hot or otherwise. (But loves COLD Vanilla Ice Cream). Her Baloney Fried. And no LT on her Bacon Sandwich. And please, don't mess up her PLAIN Hamburger with Cheese. Click on headline for complete commentary
Next earlier column: Edmonton has lost its sense of humor?. Posted September15, 2013

By Carol Perkins

To follow up from my earlier article about my food addiction, I am also picky. For example. I like my tea iced and my coffee piping hot. I am not interested in cold pea soup, pumpkin soup, or carrot soup. Peas and carrots do not constitute a soup of their own; they go in vegetable soup. Pumpkin is for pies or bread. However, a potato can end up in vegetable soup or in its own soup. I am a supporter of potato soup.

Don't offer me a cold hot dog. There is something wrong with eating my hot dog cold. A steamed bun and a floating hot dog in a pan of boiling water is the American way. As for other quick sandwiches, baloney is meant to be fried and even more tasty if burned around the edges. Cold baloney on a cracker suits the tastes of some, but not me. The only thing I want on a cracker is a slice of American cheese or peanut butter. I don't like any condiments on my sandwiches except on a Mexican hamburger and then I want mustard. I don't touch mayonnaise or salad dressing. Ketchup is for French fries only.

As for American's favorite picnic food, my fried chicken must be hot or I'm not touching it. I'm not gnawing on a cold chicken leg right out of the refrigerator. Not me. My chicken has to be hot unless it is in a chicken salad and then it must be cold. I only eat white meat.

I want my eggs scrambled and not pickled, floating around in a jar, banging into each other until someone rescues them. Don't devil my eggs or boil them either; can't stand the smell. Over easy turns my stomach as it runs around the plate waiting for a piece of toast to catch it. My scrambled eggs must be hard as a rock with no obvious egg whites peeking through.

Don't mess up a good hamburger with cheese. Why do some fast food places think a plain hamburger is a cheeseburger? When I order, I have finally learn to say, "Plain hamburger, just the meat and the bun." If I want cheese, I'll put it on my crackers. This drives Guy crazy. He is embarrassed to order a plain hamburger. "What do you care?" I ask. "No one eats a plain hamburger. It's just weird." So does he think I'm the only person who orders a plain hamburger at McDonald's.

On my BLT I don't want any L and T. I like a plain bacon sandwich; just the toast and the bacon. This drives Guy crazy. "Why can't you be normal like other people?" What other people? He can't think of anyone other than himself.

He, on the other hand, is a creature of habit too. He prefers that I cook his food and serve it slightly warm yet he wants to eat as soon as I turn off the stove. I may be a whiz in the kitchen, but I'm not that good. "How long before the food cools off enough for me to eat it?" he says standing over the roast, potatoes, and carrots. I have yet to learn the art of baking and leaving the food slightly chilled. I want a baked potato steaming so the butter will melt; he wants to be able to lay his nose in the potato and not get a third degree burn.

I have not touched a drop of milk since I stopped taking the bottle. When I saw the cow and someone milking the cow, that did it for me. If I smell milk, I gag. When I was younger, relatives and friends assured me I didn't know what I was missing, so occasionally I would try to sip a little from a straw so I wouldn't be the only kid at school skipping milk break. I gagged. Yet, my favorite dessert is vanilla ice cream. No chocolate syrup; no toppings. Plain, hand scooped vanilla ice cream. A contradiction.

The smell of homemade butter is like smelling a pig pen along a highway on a hot day. Guy loves homemade butter. Years ago his sister Carolyn knew a woman in her area who churned butter. When she made a batch, Carolyn would call and we drove to Lamb after butter. Guy cherished it like I was going to steal bites in the middle of the night. He mixed his homemade butter into some molasses and poured over his store bought biscuits which he prefers to my homemade ones. I wanted no part of that threat.

As for food on my plate, I don't want anything to touch. My peas stay on one side of the plate and my corn on the other. My mashed potatoes do not need to mix with my green beans. "It all goes down together," I've been told by those who think I'm strange. It may go down together, but it isn't going in together. I always liked lunchroom trays for that reason.

I know some people in my family think I'm strange about some of my food habits, but what they think are my peculiarities, I don't find peculiar at all. It's just a matter of taste. - CAROL PERKINS

This story was posted on 2013-09-22 07:32:29
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