Don't touch the meat

The thing about my food phobias is that they make perfect sense.

I’m not talking about simple food dislikes, such as my aversion to liver or to lima beans (better known as Hemorrhoids of Satan). I don’t mean not liking sweet and sour anything. (I mean, what’s the point, there? It’s usually all sweet and not at all sour.)

I’m not even talking about my inability to eat a dish that contains—pardon me while I shudder—peas. Peas that must be removed one at a time and stacked at the plate’s side, while everyone else stares at me while they chew. I’m sorry for the pea lovers out there, but I find the things insidious.

No, I’m talking about actual culinary events that, when then moon and stars misalign and cause disaster, or when destiny catches up to punish me for my misdeeds, causes me to recoil from the plate in front of me as if I’d been served a healthy, glistening portion of Hannibal Lecter’s leftovers.

Case in point: ketchup juice. And of course, its condiment cousin, mustard juice. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re making a sandwich. You’ve perfectly toasted two slices of bread and you have ready the turkey or what have you, the lettuce, the thinly-sliced tomatoes, the salt and pepper. But before you slather the browned bread with all your sandwich ingredients, you reach for the bottle of mustard, turn it upside down, squeeze . . . and then you discover with dismay that your perfect toast is now covered with the thin and runny snot-colored liquid that’s accumulated on top of the mustard. It’s no more appetizing when you’re anticipating a hamburger and you squirt reddish, vinegary ketchup spooge all over the pristine bun. Not even vigorous shaking can always prevent it.

Food chemists of America, please prevent this travesty. What are we paying you for?

When I go out to the first meal of the day with friends, I am always roundly mocked for my second and more debilitating food phobia. Usually before the order actually arrives. Here it is: I cannot stand—I cannot stand—for maple syrup to touch my breakfast meats. There, I’ve admitted it. I’m a breakfast food segregationist. Let them stay separate, but equal. But just make sure that they’re separate, first and foremost.

I regard with abject horror the encroachment of a pool of syrup from its stack of pancakes upon a few innocent slices of bacon. What did the sausage do to deserve being covered with something so sticky and sweet? All it wanted was to be delivered to the table with its crispy, seasoned goodness intact. There’s nothing inherently wrong with syrup. I like it on the pancakes or the French toast or the crunchy waffles. I like it very much indeed. I just want to scream, however, when I see the stuff spreading past what should be its boundaries. Rather than let a drop sully the meats, I’ll perch them precariously at the plate’s edge, or remove them entirely to the little dish with the toast. I’ve even been known to make a sanctuary for them on a neatly-folded napkin, all while my friends watch me in amazement.

“It all ends up in the same place,” they’ll point out. As if I haven’t heard it before, or as if it’s an entirely new concept. I know it all ends up in the same place. I know it all ends up in the same place! Maybe I’ll just remind you that it all ends up in the same place next time I invite you over for dinner, buster, and serve your pumpkin pie and salad and lasagna freshly liquified from the blender, after I’ve make you spit in it several times. I mean, all that’s going in the same place too, isn’t it? Huh? HUH?

So. Like I said. The thing about my food phobias is that they make perfect sense. Y’alls are just plain weird.