Food Essay: Culinary Compromise

I’m a dessert girl. So, when I decided to move in with my boyfriend,  an admitted health nut, I was a bit concerned. In the three years we had been dating, I’d never actually seen him eat anything good (i.e.: unhealthy), unless it was a special occasion, and even those times, dessert was never it. So, in turn, during those three years my dessert intake was limited to time I spent alone. That meant he never knew.  Compromise. That is what a relationship is all about, so the least I could do was pig out without him.  Therefore, his  aversion to sugar never seemed to bother me. That is, until moving week came. While his main concern became where to fit all my shoes in the one bedroom that barely held his, mine became the realization that my culinary indulgences like home made deep fried Oreos and chocolate dipped peanut butter balls were going to give way to sugar free popsicles and fat free dressing. Sure he knew I like the sweet stuff, but  did he know just how much? While he found space in the closet, I found hiding spots for my bars of Scharffenberger.

I met him at the gym – I was working as a membership consultant while in college, and he was a disgruntled exercise junkie whose gym had just closed. He was forced to come into Gold’s, where I was working and sign up.  For some reason, he figured that anyone who works at a gym must be into health food.  While I didn’t mind other people eating it, I preferred not to.  Actually, I  found that a couple of Starburst candies worked just as well as energy drinks when in need of a pre-cardio jolt.  When, of course, I felt the need to actually do card.  His initial confusion at my menu choices was not his fault – after all, I did work in a gym.  And I did exercise once in a while, and sometimes I even enjoyed it.  But that is where it ended for me. Incorporating the occasional weekly workout sessions did not mean that I would cross over into granola land. I always thought, however, that he would secretly wish for me to do so.

Day one in our joint apartment confirmed my anxiety. Dusty, tired and shiny from the sweat of moving, my suggestion for our first dinner was simple. Apple pie a la mode. Nothing says welcome home quite like it.

I wasn’t sure if his look was one of confusion or shock. At that moment, I became conscious of two things: 1. I knew nothing about compromise and 2. I had better learn to like egg whites, and not just in the 7 minute icing form, because I had a feeling these two things were about to change my life. 

The initial merge proved to be difficult on both of us. Grocery shopping took forever with me getting lost in the baking and dessert section and he inevitably wound up waiting up to an hour for me at the counter. I ‘d heard of that whole outer perimeter-shopping concept, but didn’t think anyone actually did it. Why would they when all the good stuff was in the middle?  Take out became a distant memory (too much MSG) and waking up in the middle of the night for a second helping of dinner’s risotto would only live on in my dreams – he couldn’t have leftovers in the fridge for more than 2 hours. Apparently that is how long it takes for bacteria to begin to grow on food. Who knew? As time went on, we began to settle into our situation and accept things, and each other, for what they were. While we could work around some things like the bacteria phobia and the need for an emergency stash of Oreo cookies on hand at all times, we just couldn’t work around others.  Breakfast was one of them. My leisurely morning ritual of sipping cappuccino and nibbling chocolate croissants while flipping through channels would have to suffer if I wanted to spend any time with him before I left work work, So i learned to love his preferred method of eating oatmeal while standing in the kitchen in gym clothes and gulping (gasp!) instant coffee so that he had time to fit in a morning workout.  We realized that avoiding all things food while together was no way to live, and that culinary compromise would be the factor that binds us. 

This would especially prove true on during our first holiday hosting session. See, he wouldn’t even bend the diet rules on special occasions, so Christmas would be a problem. I dreamed of star shaped, chocolate dipped graham cracker cookies with white dot sprinkles (like the ones I had before my kindergarten nap session)  all year long, while  he looked forward to having the gym all to himself on Christmas Eve while the rest of the world finished their last minute shopping.  My holiday menu suggestion was snacky foods like mini cheese quiches, tiny fried spring rolls and pigs in a blanket with a giant dessert buffet decorated with Hostess Snowballs as a finale. No one ever has dessert parties – we would be innovators!  After much deliberation and the occasional “you’re crazy” in both directions, we decided to potluck the dinner so everyone could eat whatever they wanted.  The golden tofu wasn’t that bad, and trying new foods together was fun. Even though he took just one bit of most dishes, and he stayed away from the snowball buffet -  which was a hit with everyone else - it was a treat for both of us to see the other experimenting just a bit.  I never had the guts to tell him that I secretly ate so many snowballs that Christmas (for fear I wouldn't get any) that I can’t even look at them now.  

“You’re crazy” I can’ take, but “I told you so” just doesn’t go down as easy.

Eight years later, we have learned to enjoy each other’s gastronomic quirks. I love that he sneaks baby carrots into the movies and thinks that turkey burgers are a treat. He has  - after all this time - developed a taste for fine chocolate and thinks Scharffenberger ranks the best. He even bought me an ice cream maker for Christmas last year and I bought myself a salad spinner for my birthday!

We often spend weekends together perfecting the perfect fat free, sugar free pistachio and fresh basil ice cream.  Some days all we get is icy soup. Other days it is a cold cream so good we eat nothing else at all.

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