I love food and will eat almost anything. I ate sushi when it was real and raw, long before the civilized California roll. It was Denver if I remember correctly. I was attending a conference, and my cousin wanted to show off his new-found sophistication so he took me to an Asian restaurant and ordered sushi. I have since learned that that was probably not the correct name for the pieces of raw salmon, tuna, and octopus served on a wooden board. It was okay. The octopus was my favorite, although I can’t say I have ever craved it after that first try.
I have my food preferences. I’m a big fan of anything hot and spicy. As a child, I did not like raspberries or avocados, but I knew I would someday so I kept trying until they made a positive impression on my palate. It hasn’t worked for Brussels sprout. I just don’t like the taste of those nasty, little cabbages.
Disliking something for its taste is not irrational; disliking it for its emotional value is very irrational. And I am thoroughly irrational in my dislike of cheeseburgers – to the point of rudeness (and I am never rude). I have never liked them, and I am determined that I never will.
My intense animosity toward cheeseburgers became apparent several months ago when my dear husband brought one home to me for supper. When I saw the bag from Braum’s on the kitchen counter, I thought, “How sweet of him to bring me a hamburger!” This was a rare occurrence, and I wanted to reinforce his behavior so I was preparing to deliver a warm but not too effusive thank you (he doesn’t like effusive).
I set out a plate and unwrapped the burger. Something akin to shock skittered down my spine. Was that cheese stuck to the wrapper? Oh, dear. I don’t like cheese on my hamburger, but I could scrape most of it off and eat it anyway. No need to hurt his feelings.
I lifted the flawed burger onto the plate and lifted the top half of the bun to scrape off the offending cheese and add extra pickle slices. This time I actually stepped away from the counter. MAYONNAISE, ARRRGH! No way, no how could I eat that thing. This was an abomination, and I couldn’t hold my tongue. I confronted my husband, hoping it was a Braum’s mistake, that he didn’t actually order me a cheeseburger. After all, we’ve been married for 41 years, and I’ve never been shy about my dislike of these culinary mistakes.
It was not the fault of the teeny bopper server behind the counter. He ordered it for me! (What kind of horrible Freudian statement was he making?) When I let him know that in no uncertain terms that I DO NOT LIKE CHEESEBURGERS, his response was, “Well, you always ask me if I want cheese on my hamburger.” What? How is that even relevant to my aversion to cheeseburgers? How does this man’s mind work? I stood between a man whose thinking took him on a circuitous route to believing I liked cheeseburgers (after 41 years!) and a mass of cheese and mayonnaise defiling what could have been a tasty hamburger.
I couldn’t eat it. I didn’t eat it. I left it on the cabinet to shame him. (I doubt he noticed.)
The irrational thing about all this is that I actually like all the parts that make up a cheeseburger. I just don’t want to eat them in that combination. I find it more disgusting than raw fish on a board. I haven’t a clue why.
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