I have an ... interesting relationship with food. I like it well enough, and I don't think I would prefer it if we all ate sustenance tablets or anything, but I find it so tiresome.
Craig and I have a well worn folio of recipes that we make. Curries, stir-frys (stir-fries?), Italian food, steak. When we lived in London and he did most of the cooking (seeing as how he was home from work at 5:05pm and I wasn't home til near 7) we bought a cook book and he learned to cook more, and cook well. We are also very picky people, and our pickiness does not always line up*. It's ever so complicated but it works for us.
I tend to fixate on food. For a while all I would eat for breakfast was crumpets with marmite. For the next little while it was english muffins, and at the moment it is peanut butter on crackers, or toast. At the moment I would eat vindaloo three times a week if Craig wasn't there to roll his eyes and ask if maybe, just maybe, I could make something else on my nights to cook.
For a while all I craved for snack foods was hummus and pita bread. Then it was plain crackers. Now it is crackers with cream cheese and gherkins.
I'm a kind of like a pregnant lady with my strange strange food cravings, only without the little parasite.
I always have been like this. Fixating on flavours, or eating in order. I know it infuriates my family**. I get obsessed with a particular brand or flavour of say, museli bar, and eat them for months at a time. And then, all of a sudden, with no rhyme or reason, and usually when others could finally remember what damned museli bar it was that I ate, it would fade and I couldn't stomach them.
This post isn't going anywhere. Seriously. I just can't stop thinking about crackers with cream cheese and gherkins.
p.s. I took the Baron-Cohen Autism-Spectrum questionnaire. I scored just as highly as I suspected I would. What do you think I scored? What did you score?
* We do however both abhor tomatoes. We are a no tomatoes household. Yes, seriously, tomatoes. Ick. ** It is a huge joke in my family about how I hate having my foods touch on a plate. But seriously, it bothers me. A lot. Especially if it's something hot like, say, lasagne, and something cold like Salad. I would prefer a different plate for each.
As the clock hit midnight and hair metal beat its way out of the speakers, Craig turned 27. But he is not an 80s rock god, so by 1 am he was sleeping heavily, still clad in a black beater and leopard print leggings. His wig a straggly animal on a chair upstairs. This morning he woke, curled into my side and groaned "Twenty Seven. That's almost Thirty". And so, I made him pancakes.
When I met Craig he was 17. He's now 27. I am ever so lucky.