What is your least favorite food? Maybe the smell makes you gag or the texture is too much. Perhaps the flavor is unpleasant--or maybe you can’t stand the sensation that shoots through your teeth when you take a bite. But what is at the root of your reaction? “Unappetizing: The truth behind the foods we hate” is a series of personal essays that explores what is at the core of the foods that make our stomachs turn. Maybe they’re tied to a memory or a circumstance. Maybe they’ve overstayed their welcome. Or maybe, it’s the food that doesn’t like us. From heart breaking to hilarious, “Unappetizing: The truths behind the foods we hate” covers the full spectrum of why we steer away from the dishes we detest.
My abhorrence for mushroom ravioli began like so many tragedies, with euphoria slowly dissolving into despair.
Eating is my favorite hobby. Food is my channel to explore different cultures, commemorate special moments and deepen family bonds.
I have enjoyed some of the finest gourmet treats. But the most delectable dish is Olive Garden’s Ravioli Di Portobello. This chain restaurant managed to craft a luscious blend of tender portobello mushrooms and sharp cheeses enveloped by savory pillows of dough, topped with a tangy sun-dried tomato cream sauce.
My father and I feasted on Ravioli Di Portobello on countless occasions. He presented mushroom ravioli as a response to many situations. For birthdays, good grades, even cleaning my room; mushroom ravioli was the reward. For small scrapes, bad haircuts or broken toys, mushroom ravioli was the antidote to any problem. Sometimes my father just wanted to make me happy for no particular reason, so he surprised me with our favorite treat: mushroom ravioli.
A hearty helping of Ravioli Di Portobello could be justified in nearly any circumstance.
It was like any other Sunday morning until it wasn’t. Awoken by wails of desperation from my mother, I ran to her side as her tears poured over my father’s lifeless body.
Suddenly it seemed like I was watching a movie that I was also starring in. In this coming-of-age story, the adolescent protagonist reached the climactic moment. Her circumstances looked troubling. However, I never doubted, that like in any good movie, tension would rise then fall into a swift resolution, concluding with a conventional happy ending. (Spoiler alert: it did not).
What I thought was a feel-good family film devolved into a horror-filled feature, I noticed the background actors playing EMTs glance at each other with a look conveying sympathy but also perplexity at my naivety. The principle extra, cast as EMT #1 finally said, “I’m sorry there’s nothing we can do. I’m honestly surprised he lasted this long.”
“What heartless moron wrote this dialogue?” I thought to myself, as my character wept.
In hindsight, it is not shocking that a morbidly obese man with a history of congestive heart failure and a tendency to use food as a means of both celebration and comfort faced an early expiration date. Perishing from arteries caked with plaque, his heart became exhausted from pumping blood to his brain and the rest of his body, eating through cardiac tissue until his ventricular wall was so thin it could no longer contract.
Once we notified family and friends and made funeral arrangements, it was dinner time. My mother wanted to do anything to make me feel better. So, we went to none other than Olive Garden. I promptly ordered the Ravioli Di Portobello.
For a brief moment as I chewed the plump pockets filled with a velvety blend of umami mushrooms and buttery fontina, my excruciating pain was alleviated. I wasn’t a heartbroken teenage girl whose world has been irrevocably shattered. I was just someone in a restaurant surrounded by outdated décor and never-ending breadsticks.
I quickly realized smothering my grief in a decadent cream sauce made it far easier to swallow.
The soothing aid baked into each bite of mushroom ravioli allowed me to exhibit an act of poise well beyond my years.
And so, I ate. What started as an innocent vice to pacify my sadness quickly became an everyday ritual.
I felt like I was eating for my father. If he could no longer enjoy culinary excellence, I must absorb enough satisfaction for both of us. Meaning: double the enjoyment, double the portion size. This unreasonable math equation lent itself to all food.
In a similar irrational way, I was angry with him for leaving me. In my 14-year-old mind, he chose indulging in caloric chaos over sticking around for his only child. If he could eat whatever he wanted, so could I. I gained 95 pounds in less than a year.
People around me definitely noticed, but they treated me as though I were a porcelain doll that could shatter at any moment; therefore, they catered to my every whim. No one dared to suggest I lay off the snacks. My daily dose of Ravioli Di Portobello continued. I knew it was hurting me but the comfort it provided me made it worth it. How can the thing I love the most also be causing me the most harm?
I hated the ravioli for having so many calories. I hated the ravioli for tasting so good. I hated the ravioli for the emotional attachment I formed to it. I hated that no one told me no. I hated that I had let myself gain so much weight. Most of all I hate that my father died.
Without warning the Ravioli Di Portobello was taken off the menu. Once again, something I loved, that provided me with a sense of comfort and security had been abruptly taken from me.