Once Upon A Palate
By Holly Richards
She was running in circles. It was summer and the sun warmed every freckle on her face. The smell of grilled hot dogs wafting through the air. The plastic turtle sandbox paid her no mind as she made her way around it, shouting, “I’m allergic to mustard!!” This wasn’t exactly true, but no one debated with her. She just didn’t like the taste and that was fair enough. There would only be ketchup on her bun for several more years. A slight cringe upon her face every time she watched the commercial with the catch phrase, “Pardon me, but do you have any Grey Poupon?” No doubt her five-year-old palate was overwhelmed by the combination of sour, bitter and that hint of spice. It was almost as awful as celery.
Celery, which she referred to as “green carrots,” was the first taste to register disgust on her tongue. It started with Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, lovingly poured into a bowl and microwaved by her great aunt Carol. It offended her taste buds like nothing else - green carrots that melted the moment saliva enveloped them, floating amongst the other ingredients of a similar texture. “It doesn’t even have a taste,” her parents, friends, society would say. It did.
She was driving around a circle. It was a dark winter evening and the air smelled like limestone and cigarettes. Marianne at the center of Place de la République gazed at the horizon, resting one hand on the Declaration of Human Rights and holding an olive branch in the other. Olives were not her forte, having only tasted the tiny flavorless black slices from a can. It would be another few years before she could enjoy them.
She had just been counseled by the study abroad office to try whatever she was offered as a gesture of politesse and a more immersive cultural experience. Upon meeting her host mother, she could sense an overwhelming degree of scrutiny - questions about the quality of her French, whether she was a religious person, her knowledge of the city and the country that would be her home for the next four months. Acceptance was something to earn, not a gift freely given.
Her first dinner with her host family would be leftovers. As she sat down at the dinner table, the words landed like a lead balloon, “tomates farcies” - stuffed tomatoes. Her heart sank as she prepared her twenty-year-old palate for something it had refused until now. She could handle sauce on pizza (smothered in cheese), her (Irish heritage) mother’s Sunday gravy (also smothered with cheese), and Campbell’s Tomato Soup (with Cheetos), but the tomato itself was just too far. She repeated the words in her head, “Just like ketchup. Think of ketchup,” as she took her first bite. With her host mother and the need to please her satisfied, she took two more bites, said she was full, and went to bed hungry.
She was sitting around a circle. It was spring, and the pollen in D.C. was overwhelming, leaving a layer of yellow on every parked car. The dining room table in her roommate’s older sister’s condo, proud of itself for being so neat and clean. This was the home of people who had a wine tasting for their thirtieth birthday. Sunday dinners were an art form, a chance to impress a younger sister, and when feeling generous, her roommate too.
“How could you not like onions?!” the sister demanded, perplexed. Pizzas had been ordered from the Italian deli down the street. One covered in caramelized onions. The other, she wouldn’t remember. The thought of slimy yet crunchy slivers, sharp and pungent, left her mouth dry as a bone. She had no real explanation to give to the sister. She’d spent twenty-four years of her life picking onions out of sandwiches, salads and sauces. Though she’d learned about the human palate changing every seven years, and had even expanded her tastes to include tomatoes, peppers and avocados, it felt like her own maturation had come into question. Real adults should be able to eat onions. But her nostrils closed up as the pizza box opened and the smell of onions enveloped the room. There was plenty of that other pizza to eat, anyway.
She was grasping at circles. It was summer again and the Parisian Sunday marché buzzed with activity under the raised metro platform. The euro coins in her pocket sang as they clinked together around her fingers. She smiled at the woman across from her managing a stand of olives, nuts, and spices. “100 grams of green Spanish olives, 200 grams of Kalamata olives, and 100 grams of black Moroccan olives please,” she said in French. She had been living in Paris with her husband for more than a year and the olives were for an apéro with expat friends whose tastes were just as diverse as their countries of origin.
Earlier that day she’d sliced green pepper, eggplant, zucchini, tomato, onion, and garlic into large chunks and placed them in a slow cooker with olive oil, salt, and herbs. Ratatouille had become a go-to dish for sharing with visiting American friends she wanted to impress. She felt a sense of satisfaction in knowing that her thirty-something palate had expanded to take pleasure in almost every vegetable. But as she began to spoon the ratatouille into her friends’ bowls, she just couldn’t shake the desire to please, the weight of it looming over every dish she made or was offered.
She was stirring in circles. It was fall, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier. The chicken carcass in the pot took its final bath amidst leeks, carrots, ginger, and onions. Her four-year-old son, sick in the other room, coughed while watching someone playing with toy vehicles on YouTube Kids. She called her mother on FaceTime.
The smell of chicken soup permeated the living room. Her mother asked about her grandson and whether she was making soup for him. She nodded her head and held the phone over the simmering pot. Onions, leeks, shallots, swimming in the soup, giving. How she’d grown up. She lifted the phone back to her face. “Aren’t you going to add green carrots?” her mother asked with a chuckle. Her nostrils flared as she responded, “Ew. No, mom. That’s gross.”
She strained some broth into a bowl and made her way towards the couch where her son sat mesmerized by a blob of pink silicone with glasses called Sammy. “I can’t let you eat this here. Can you come to the table, please?” He reluctantly made his way to the dining area, climbing into his chair and staring down into the bowl. “There isn’t broccoli in this?” he hesitated. “Nope, no broccoli,” she said. “Good. Because I’m allergic to broccoli.”
Holly Richards is the author of several unpublished manuscripts, essays, and screenplays. She used to write speeches, talking points, and presentations for geopoliticians and plan international events. Now she runs You Me We Yoga in DC and spends time attempting to grow her own food (herbs mostly).
Read Holly’s other Gulllet stories:
Let it Brew
Smallest State, Best Plates
Vaso Michailidou is an illustrator based in her sunny hometown of Thessaloniki, Greece. During some of the day, she is also a comic artist and graphic designer. She studied illustration in the UK, worked for several years in a creative studio, and is currently a freelancer.
This was so enjoyable! 🧅
Love!! 😍