tasteless

my parents raised us to have no taste. this is not to say my brother and i are anywhere near putting pink flamingos or garden gnomes in our front yards. we wouldn’t be caught dead in Hawaiian shirts and when prom came, we were certainly not wearing a cowboy-esque tux with a large brass button where a tie might go. but what i mean to say is that they were not picky people when i was growing up and are for some reason remarkably passive when it comes to things they like or do not.
“well, i wasn’t sure if you liked chocolate or not, so i decided on the marble cake rather than one that was strictly vanilla or strictly chocolate,” my mother’s friend says as she unveils a frosted monstrosity that reads “Happy Birthday Molly” written in a font resembling that of a third grade teacher who bakes for the Food Bazaar on weekends.

“cake is cake,” my mother responds with a shrug of her shoulders, dipping a finger into the frosting as her friend stands nervously before her, still holding the cake. i agreed with her, knowing she would have rather responded with “who the fuck cares as long as the shit is edible.” what’s the big deal? i thought. would a person actually refuse a cake because they didn’t like chocolate? then i thought of my mother’s cousin, karen. karen would refuse a chocolate cake. in fact, i’ve seen her do it. i’ve seen her nearly refuse to sit at a table where chocolate cake was being served. karen had taste. she hated almost everything.

she was the type of person who would accurately describe the sort of table she desired to sit at to the host of a crowded French restaurant, “nothing too close to the bathroom, please. and nothing where my elbows will be anywhere close to touching another patrons, and i’d like to eat my meal without listening to someone else’s conversation,” she’d say in her posh, faux british accent. karen loved the ballet, but hated the opera. was a fan of veal, but refused chicken with bones. she took her coffee black, her bread whole grain, and found denim was too coarse a fabric for her skin.

my parents, on the other hand, bought their meat according to what was on sale. would watch whatever was on television should the remote control be missing, refusing to get up. drank their wine from boxes, ate at whatever restaurant was closest to the exit off the highway. never did they proclaim an concern for what sort of bread be on their sandwich, how many lumps of sugar in their coffee, or what genre of film we watch. “it’s all the same,” they’d say in response to a comparison between anything. front row or back row, red wine or white wine, dead or alive. "we don't need to make a fuss."

and so, inherently, my brother and i were raised to not care either. i sometimes get confused when asked “how would you like your steak done, sir?” “well, cooked, i suppose,” i’d respond to the waiter. “what do you mean, what sort of bread? there’s options? well… Wonder Bread is what I’d use if i were to make it myself,” I’d think to myself at the deli. My all time most loathed conversation is friends deciding on where to dine.

“well, we could have Italian if we’re not worried about carbs, or mexican if we want spicy, chinese in this neighborhood is no good.” of course i’d be the unfortunate soul to say, “well, there’s a taco bell right across the street, that’ll do, won’t it?”

“bowen, we’re not eating at a fucking taco bell for lunch.” i didn’t get it. weren’t we just looking for food? of course, the longer i live in new york, the more finely tuned my taste becomes. given the option, I’d eat a sandwich for lunch with friends, rather than a bag of chips and an Arizona iced tea from the corner shop. when someone asks me how me meal is, i can sometimes come up with some sort of commentary, "it's good, a little saltier than i'd have liked, but nonetheless, it's decent." but still. refuse a cake? never.