Picky Eaters | reflective essay
The Etiquette of Tongues: On Taste, Politeness, and the Small Tenderness of Trying
Thereâs a particular kind of moment that lingers â not quite offensive, not quite dramatic. Just a small silence, a shift in the room, when someone sets their fork down with a wince, or says, âI donât eat that,â while someone else is still holding the serving spoon. Nobody dies. But something flickers. Maybe dignity. Maybe the mood.
Itâs not something I take personally. I just notice it. Iâve always been a little sensitive to food (And all things, to be honest). To the way people talk about meals. To the subtle grimace, the pause before a bite, or the immediate dive toward condiments before the dish has even had a chance to speak for itself. The little habits that say more than words.
Iâm not a picky eater. Not because I love every food, but because Iâve learned to treat food like a person with a story. I donât have to like it, but I try to meet it where it is. Trying a dish, even just a bite, feels like shaking its hand. Itâs not about flavor, really. Itâs about respect. Itâs about curiosity. Itâs about meeting someone halfway.
If I donât enjoy something, I wonât lie about it. But I also wonât call it âgrossâ or âweirdâ or âbad.â I prefer ânot for me.â Itâs simple, neutral, and most importantly, kind. It leaves room for the idea that someone else might love what I couldnât finish. It doesnât treat personal preference as objective truth. I donât believe in shaming food. Especially not food that someone made with their hands.
And people do make food with their hands. That matters. Meals arenât always measured. Sometimes theyâre instinctive, muscle memory, heart-memory. A little more of this. A dash of that. A silent prayer that someone will love it the way you loved making it. Food is rarely just food. Itâs care, and guessing, and time. Itâs standing over the stove thinking, âWould they like it a little spicier?â Itâs chopping onions even when your eyes sting, because itâll be worth it when the broth starts to smell like home. Itâs love, softened by heat. When someone feeds you, itâs a kind of offering. A small one, maybe, but not meaningless.
And not just from people you know. Sometimes itâs a stranger behind a counter, wearing a hairnet, glancing up at the lunch rush with tired eyes and a wrist cramping from repetitive motions. A short-order cook who doesnât know your name but still salts the fries just right. A fast food worker who remembers your usual order before you say it. A chef plating someone elseâs grandmotherâs stew in a restaurant kitchen miles from home. They donât have to care. But sometimes, somehow, they do. And even when they donât, the labor still counts. The hands still moved.
Which is probably why I always notice the people who treat food like a first draft. The ones who start editing before theyâve even tasted it. Who reach for ketchup instinctively, or coat their pasta in so much black pepper it looks like the dish is bracing for a snowstorm. Itâs not wrong. Itâs not even rude. Itâs just fascinating. A little funny. Like watching someone rewrite a love letter given to them as they read it aloud. Like someone stopping you mid-sentence to say, âLet me rephrase that for you.â
Taste is deeply personalâbut itâs also deeply learned. Some people grow up on spice. Others grow up on salt. Others on plain rice, over-boiled vegetables, and the polite family mantra of âjust try one bite.â Our tongues learn what feels like comfort and what feels like risk. Our palates are maps of what weâve survived and what weâve been given. No two are the same. And I get that.
But I also think thereâs an unspoken kind of grace in being willing to try something unfamiliarâsomething that wasnât made with you in mind, but was still made for you to share.
I remember bringing dumplings to school once. My mom and I had made them together the night before, folding the dough with uneven edges and laughing when some of them split open in the water. Her recipe wasnât written downâit lived in her hands. It still does. I brought the leftovers in a thermos, proud and excited. At lunch, someone wrinkled their nose and asked, âWhatâs that smell?âânot cruelly, just curiously, in that casual way that can still make a person shrink into themselves. I stopped bringing them after that. Not because I was ashamed. I just didnât want to explain anything anymore. It was easier to pack sandwiches. Food with stories that could be easily understood.
And maybe thatâs where this all comes fromânot judgment, just memory. A small moment that softened me toward the food other people love. The food they were raised on. The food theyâve grown into. I try to be gentle with it. I try to be curious. Even if itâs not something Iâll ever crave again.
Because Iâve learned that food is emotional. It carries lineage, habit, and feeling. People remember their grandmotherâs soup not just for how it tasted, but for how it felt to be served a second bowl. They remember their dadâs fried rice because he only ever made it on Saturdays when he wasnât tired. They remember what they cooked for themselves when they first moved out and didnât know how to be alone. Itâs never just about ingredients. Itâs about safety. Nostalgia. Survival. Effort. Love.
Iâve come to realize, too, that food is often the love language of people who donât say âI love youâ out loud. The shy ones. The tired ones. The proud ones. Love comes in the form of packed lunches and surprise snacks. The corner of a dish saved just for you. The silent mental note that you hate cilantro, or that you always ask for extra tofu. These small, almost invisible gestures. Some people love in servings.
But love, like taste, doesnât always stay the same. Sometimes, it changes. Sometimes, it asks for adjustmentânot just in seasoning, but in intention. Because the way we feed others isnât just about what we giveâitâs about how willing we are to adapt.
People on a diet arenât the same as picky eaters, and I think itâs important to separate the two. A diet, in its best form, is a boundaryâone that says, âIâm trying to feel better in my body,â or âIâm trying to make a change for myselfâ. And that deserves respect. Iâd never judge someone for saying no to cake because theyâre watching their sugar, or skipping the noodles because theyâre figuring out what their body needs. Thatâs not rejection. Thatâs care, too. Just a different kind.
The same goes for people with food restrictionsâthose who navigate meals with allergies, health conditions, or cultural or religious boundaries that shape what they can and canât eat. That, too, is a kind of discipline. A small act of self-preservation. And sometimes, saying no to a dish isnât about preference or judgmentâitâs about safety, or faith, or survival. Itâs not a lack of gratitude. Itâs a form of responsibility. A form of respect for oneâs own body or beliefs.
But what moves me most is when someone cooks for a person whoâs dieting or has restrictions and does it with consideration. They make a separate batch. Leave out the oil. Ask questions about preferences without judgment. Not because theyâre trying to impress, but because they want that person to feel safe, seen, fedâeven if it looks different now. That, too, is a kind of love. Maybe one of the most selfless kinds. To adapt what you offer, not because you have to, but because you want the other person to feel like theyâre still welcome at the table. Thatâs care in its purest form.
Because food isnât just about taste. Itâs about attention. And sometimes love looks like making space for someoneâs new rules, even if you miss how it used to be.
Of course, not everyone knows how to ask for that kind of space. Not everyone feels like theyâre allowed to. Iâve seen the other end of the spectrum, tooâthe people who are too polite. The ones who finish a plate even when theyâre full. The ones who nod and smile while chewing something they want to spit out. Who say âyumâ when they mean ânever again.â Some of us learned too well how to be grateful. We were taught to say thank you even when we didnât mean it, and to finish everything even when it made us sick. To waste nothing. To swallow politeness with every bite. And while that isnât always healthy, it does come from somewhere tenderâa deep understanding that effort deserves acknowledgement.
So when I see someone wrinkle their nose or push a plate away too quickly, I donât get angry. But I do wonder if theyâve ever known hungerânot just the physical kind, but the kind that makes you say thank you for something you didnât even want, just because someone tried.
And maybeâjust maybeâbeing a picky eater is a kind of luxury. Not in the indulgent sense, but in the confidence it takes to say, âNo, I donât like that,â and know youâll still be fed. It takes a certain level of comfort to reject food. To assume there will always be another option. Another fridge. Another meal. Itâs not wrong. But itâs worth noticing. Not everyone has that kind of safety. Some people eat whatâs in front of them because the alternative is nothing.
No, I donât believe everyone has to love everything. I donât think youâre a villain for not liking mushrooms. I donât think disliking spicy food is a moral failure. But I do think thereâs an art to refusal. A soft, considerate way of saying âno thank youâ without stepping on the effort it took to prepare something. Especially when that effort came from someone elseâs home, or history, or heart.
So maybe this isnât just about picky eaters after all. Maybe itâs about the choreography of feeding and being fed. The etiquette of taste. The language of care. Maybe itâs about learning how to say ânoâ without unkindness, and how to say âyesâ without swallowing yourself whole. And maybe, most of all, itâs about remembering that every dishâwhether itâs devoured or declinedâis still a story someone wanted to share.
Because when someone feeds you, theyâre not just feeding you. Theyâre saying, âThis reminded me of something warm. I hope it reminds you of something, too.â
And maybe it wonât. Maybe youâll smile, take one bite, and decide itâs not for you. And thatâs okay.
Just try to taste with more than your mouth.