The Hidden Battle at the Dinner Table

When I was 10 years old, I was at the kitchen table with my family for dinner. My dad, who had just gotten home from an over 10 hour day working as a lawyer, my six-year-old brother, my mom, who had been running around town and taking care of my brother and me, and I all sat eating steak and peas. The hot air from the summer night was blowing in from our screen door. The atmosphere was exactly what you would picture when you think of peace and serene.

 

While most families might sit down for 30 minutes, maybe an hour, I sat at that oak table for four hours. About three and a half of those hours were spent alone, staring at the heaping pile of peas and the steak that, to me, was overcooked and unappetizing. 

 

I wasn't going to eat it. I hated peas and although I was usually a fan of steak, this particular day I was not having it. My parents, exasperated, tired, and frustrated, declared that if I didn't finish my food, I wasn't leaving the table, and I was definitely not having anything else.

 

I stared at that meal like it was my enemy. I tried to calculate any possible way I could get rid of the food without actually having to eat it. Put it in a napkin? Sneak away to the trash can and hide it under wrappers? As a 10-year-old, the most logical thing I could come up with after four hours was to throw it under the table.

 

We didn't have a dog or some pet that would eat the food. I threw my overcooked steak under the table in small pieces. It just sat there, as I hoped it would blend into the dark-colored carpeting. I was able to drown the peas out with enough salt that I eventually shoved them down. With a clean plate, I went up to bed, brushed my teeth, and tucked myself in for the night. 

 

The next day my parents found the steak, obviously. Out of pure exasperation, they just let it go and I went about my day.

 

If this had been a one-off experience, maybe my parents would have reprimanded me more, grounded me, or sent me to my room. But this was an experience that they had more or less dealt with every single day since I was four years old. 

 

My diet controlled every waking hour of my life. I ate barely anything other kids my age would happily indulge in. When attending a birthday party, I wouldn't even think to touch the pizza. If I went over to a friend's house for dinner, I would dread every single second leading up to it. What were they going to serve? How much of it could I eat to make it look like just enough was gone and I didn’t actually hate it? How many pieces should I cut the food into so it would look like I had a few bites when in reality I hadn't even touched it?

 

While many young girls develop disordered eating habits to control their weight and appearance, I just genuinely hated most foods. The foods I did like were definitely not on the healthy side: chicken nuggets (don't even think of offering me any sauce), french fries, chips, mac and cheese, white bread, buttered noodles. Anything that was a plain carb was my main source of sustenance. I would include a few fruits and vegetables on occasion and, sometimes, if I was feeling risky, order a meal at a restaurant that was actually on the adult menu.

 

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My dad had grown up on a farm with parents who did not let you leave the table unless you ate everything on your plate, from pasta to the occasional beef tongue. On my mom’s side, my grandpa was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in his 40s. With most of their family’s money going towards his treatments, there was not much room to complain about what food was on her plate. 

 

People often laugh when I tell them I used to be a picky eater or they comment “Me too!” without truly knowing the extent of the situation. 

 

Among parents of extremely picky eaters, 85 percent report that it heightened tension in their families. Fights would break out between my parents and I on an almost daily basis, somehow all coming back to the subject of my diet. As an anxious and what my mom would call “free-spirited” (her nice way of saying “extremely defiant”) child, being constantly hounded about my eating habits just made every meal worse. Each family dinner felt like walking into a warzone; I tried as hard as possible not to set off whatever bomb would lead to the next screaming match.

 

Three years after dumping my steak onto the carpet I was sitting in a stuffy, white room with dim lighting and an uncomfortable couch. While I had been to therapy before, this was different; it was specifically food-focused. 

 

What specifically about this food bothers you? The therapist prodded. The texture, the smell, the way it feels in your mouth? 

 

My answer was almost always, in a variety of different phrasings: “I just don't like it.” That really was my answer. I just didn't like about 95% of the food in the world.

 

While 63% of picky eaters expand their diets by their early twenties, I wish I could say I somehow knew exactly what changed me from being the pickiest eater I knew to someone who is now more adventurous in eating than most of my family.  

 

All through high school, I was known by my friends for being the picky eater in the group. I had orders memorized at restaurants before we even arrived just so that I wouldn't embarrass myself by getting something I knew I wouldn't eat.

 

Maybe it was going to college that forced me out of my comfort zone, but the freshman dining hall where I would load up on plain pasta and parmesan (a new addition to the diet!) every single day would beg to differ. 

 

Even though my diet has expanded to include most foods for a few years now, I still find my parents occasionally staring at me across the dinner table, flitting their eyes between myself and my meal. Confused, relieved, awestruck. And all I’m doing is eating a Caesar salad.