Empty dessert plates from Morimoto Waikiki
I thought being called “aunty” was tough.
Then I read an article in the New York Times earlier this month about baby boomers who don’t want to be called grandparents.
“This generation of grandparents takes the whole naming process more seriously than ever,” said Lin Wellford, coauthor of “The New Grandparents Name Book: A Lighthearted Guide to Picking the Perfect Grandparent Name” (ArtStone, 2009). “How many times in your life do you get to name yourself?”
I remember a time when mothers couldn’t wait to be grandparents — and they didn’t seem to care what we called them. I called my paternal grandma (above), “Grams.” And other grandma was just that — “Grandma.”
But times are a-changing.
Actress (and fellow blogger) Gwyneth Paltrow said, while promoting her new cookbook, “My Father’s Daughter” (Grand Central Life & Style), that her mom, actress Blythe Danner, waned to be called Woof by her grandchildren.
Actress Goldie Hawn, mother to Kate Hudson, wrote in her memoir that the name, “Grandma” was “word that had so many connotations of old age and decrepitude.” (She prefers to be called GlamMa.)
Wellford’s book offers 700 options for grandparents, from G-mom to Bubba to “Sonoma and Napa for a more sophisticated set.”
Why can’t we just accept our age — and where that puts us in this world? Hey, I know I’m 36. I’ve moved from “Sistah” to “Aunty” — and I can’t do anything about it. Except whine in a blog, but hey, I’m not in denial!
People think I eat anything and everything — and if you’ve followed my blog, it does appear that way.
But honestly, there are a lot of foods I don’t like to eat — and some I just flat-out refuse.
Namely peas.
I have never liked them, despite how friendly they may appear or how the flavor is supposed to evoke spring. I really don’t get their appeal. I hate the texture, the starchiness, the way they squish in your mouth.
I remember sitting for what seemed like hours (bordering child abuse) at the dinner table because I refused to eat the peas on my plate.
My disdain for the spherical green seeds went public Monday night at Side Street Inn, where I carefully plucked every single pea from the fried rice and placed it near the sprig of parsley, where they weren’t touching anything on the plate I might ingest.
My colleague, Bart Asato, quickly snapped a photo of my plate — fried rice on one side, lonely peas on another — and posted it to Facebook with the caption, “The shocking truth of what Cat does with her peas from the Side Street Inn fried rice.”
Shocking? Not to me. But he was surprised there were foods I don’t eat.
Peas top my list — but it’s a long list.
For starters, I don’t eat mealy tomatoes, cauliflower, beans, sea urchin, most mushrooms and bread crust. I don’t care for cantaloupe, eggplant and cucumber — though I can, if I had to, eat them. I don’t drink beer or coffee, though I won’t refuse coffee-flavored ice cream. To me, sashimi tastes like fish Jell-O. And pistachios aren’t high on my list of favorites, either.
I wouldn’t say I’m a finicky eater — though my mom and boyfriend would argue this — but I like what I like. And I tend to only eat what I like. I’ll try something new — but if I don’t like it immediately, I won’t bother trying it again.
Bart thought it was weird that I didn’t eat peas. (Though I’ll have you know, 873 people agree with me on the I Hate Peas Facebook page.) But don’t we all hate something that others love?
