Love, Blue Cheese, and Food Memory

In July of 2008, one of my favorite cookery websites, Cookthink, posted a very brief article on their blog (in their aptly named "Cookshrink" column) discussing food tastes and the health and success of relationships. They pondered such awesome questions as:

"[W]hat happens when you date/lust after/live with somebody whose tastes are opposed to yours? Do you compromise or cook separate meals? Do you keep your mouth shut or use it to pick a fight? Try to change their palate or accept it for what it is?"

I think about this article constantly. Really. Like, it takes up an inordinate amount of my monthly brainspace. If you were to map out everything I thought about in a 28-day period, this article would probably comprise about one-thirtieth of the total volume of my thoughts during that length of time. I probably think about it as much as, if not a teensy bit more than, my grandma.

Like any good shrink, this article stirred up some deep-rooted values that I didn't realize I had. Yes, I've been in a relationship with someone whose tastes didn't jive with mine. I love seafood, while she stayed far, far away. I discovered an affinity for blue cheese, she held her nose. I ordered chocolate for dessert, she poked at it for a second then left it for me. (Mushrooms--don't get me started with the mushrooms.) It was challenging at times, and when it would really get under my skin, I'd try to laugh at myself for taking food so seriously--more seriously than love, I guess.

So you can imagine what a relief it was to learn, thanks to this article, that I wasn't alone. While she and I didn't break up over our differences in palates, it certainly made sushi dates difficult.

But it's not just the impact of opposing tastes that intrigues me. My trainer often puts me through several reps of the same exercise so that I commit the motion to "muscle memory" (the next day: ouch). I want to propose the idea of "food memory," hopefully with less ouch.

Because, looking back on it, my most serious relationships have each taught me something unique about food, helping me become the food-aware person I am today. (Again, I want to laugh at myself for this, but I also think it's kind of telling that when I look back on these relationships I can very easily identify what each taught me about food. Ask about the most romantic thing we did together and I may otherwise draw a blank.)

For example, while a lot of our tastes didn't match, the girlfriend I mention above did introduce me to tasty wine and fine dining, for which I am eternally grateful (especially for that one time we went to Millennium here in San Francisco...good glory, deliciousness!). Without her intervention, I could still be obliviously drinking two-buck Chuck right now.

And D, whom I dated in college. She taught me how to use onions and garlic in my cooking. Growing up, mom rarely, if ever, used the aromatics at home--too smelly. D taught me that "smelly," in this case, wasn't a bad thing. She also introduced me to the avocado, and, when we traveled around Europe, broke and dirty, she showed me how delicious cheese, tomato, and avocado together can be when paired with a loaf of crusty bread. If you know me, then you know that I can't live without onion, garlic, and avocado. So, again: eternally grateful.

B, my girlfriend now, has introduced me to oysters. Live, raw oysters--I was always slightly apprehensive about them--are now among my favorite things to eat. They really signify West Coast living for me: the proximity of the cold, hard North Pacific Ocean, it's fresh salty air...and it's oysters. B and I have also started getting a local produce-and-eggs CSA box every other week, so we're doing fun things with veggies and ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the different shades and sizes of egg yolks that come from pasture-raised hens. It's really quite wonderful.

Food memory. The lessons you learn about tastes and flavors from the people you love. More yum, less ouch.