I grew up odd. I tried to hide it in elementary school with mixed success.
One homework assignment had us writing a description of our favorite food without naming the food.
The food I ate in my house was very ethnic. Pierogi, golumpki, chrusciki, and gallons of homemade soup. Nearly any food item could be made into a soup. Pumpkin soup, sorrell soup, cherry soup, beet soup, or soup made out of some strange-looking bones that I have never seen since my childhood. I used to say that you can’t leave your dirty socks laying around since my grandmother would make soup out of them.
So this food description assignment came across as a great challenge to me. We didn’t go out to eat in restaurants. Pizza and hamburgers were foreign fare to my kitchen table.
So I played it safe and boring; mashed potatoes became my favorite food. It was common and I did love them anyway.
My description went sort of like this: A hot, snowy mound. Fluffy, salty, and buttered towering alongside the meatloaf and canned peas.
Of course the other kids guessed what food this was, but they still thought I was odd to pick something so common in a world filled with dozens of tastier food choices.
Yea, I knew that, but a vivid description of chopped, pickled pigs feet in a fatty, gelatinous aspic might of made those kids sick.