I suppose we all have our culinary Achilles’ heels. For sister Mary, it was wheat, due to an actual allergy. Being the youngest, I have hazy impressions of certain things that are no doubt much clearer to my sisters. One such example is my childhood impression of “cereal,” which I always equated with “Rice Krispies,” since obviously that’s what we usually had. I still remember that cabinet in our kitchen cupboard that contained said Rice Krispies, Cheerios and a mysterious, dense substance known as “All Bran,” which you used to make muffins but would never dare to eat raw. If Mary ate wheat, her nose would swell up on the inside and she would go around snorting and sniffling. (During the spring we all had allergies, and so we were all snorting and sniffling to some extent. I had this trick where I would be all stopped up, and my way to clear my breathing tubes was to stick my fingers into my nostrils and SNORT. Drove my family crazy.)

Anyway, food. Our mother would eat just about anything except okra. Apparently, okra is one of the few truly slimy vegetables. I never remember our father complaining about any particular food. Laura had a memorable moment one Thanksgiving where she sampled a black olive, turned ghastly pale, and ran for the kitchen garbage can.

This leads me to my central thesis, the Adventure of the Great Northern Beans. Was I a picky eater? I have no idea. I do remember one epic battle, though, when Mama served the aforesaid beans at dinner. I was horrified at their pale gutchiness and refused to touch them. After much wrangling, we agreed that I would eat exactly six beans—but only if I could wrap each one in a separate slice of bread. All went well as I chomped into the first slice; that is, all went well until my teeth encountered the bean concealed within. At that point, I retched and started slobbering and wailing.

Gross.