I thought I was the only foodie in the house. Turns out I’ve inadvertently trained my husband to eat in my footsteps.
That’s not meant to make him sound like a submissive sort in any way. But when we met, his taste in cuisine was decidedly average. He was not what you would call an edible explorer, a gourmet gadabout or a food fanatic. He ate to live, and his choices ran to canned, frozen and fast. Then he met my family, and learned about all things Jewish – the lure of latkes, pastrami, knishes, brisket and lox.
Next came the food writing gigs, and the hunger hounds were released. I was the leader for a long while, deciding where to go and what to try, introducing him to new shops, stands and markets. But lately, I’ve been losing a little ground around here.
He’s been finding food-related ads and announcements without my knowledge, and going off exploring places without me. This weekend, he found a store my mother patronized for years in a different location (Doris Italian Market, close to where mom is now in rehab). And he managed to find this place without my help. Go figure.
I should be annoyed about this. A true foodie hates to be left out of the culinary loop. But I have to admit I am proud of him. His taste in food has improved since the days when he thought cocktail weenies and Spam were at the top of the protein chain. He buys beer from countries not known to produce decent bottles, let alone decent brews. He’ll order something besides lasagna or ravioli in an Italian restaurant; something that used to swim or cluck. And when he thinks of Asian food, he doesn’t look for a Chinese menu; Thai and Vietnamese food are favorites now.
I’m still working on making him understand the glories of garlic, and that God meant for us to eat in any way we can get it.