I am picky.

I. There’s only so much I can take without speaking up.

I look forward to meals; I like being pleasantly surprised by food, which I generally enjoy eating. Unfortunately, breakfast has been rather disappointing lately. Yesterday was roti with something involving curd. The curd was sour and I discovered that I really dislike sour food.

Today Arun handed me a plate of Maggie Mee for breakfast, all twisted and gooey. It’s understandable that people would assume I like Maggie Mee; in a place where noodles are not part of the traditional diet, one would assume that if someone said she liked noodles, she would like any sort of noodles. Last week we had noodles from Uncle’s restaurant for dinner and I loved it. I don’t like Maggie noodles, though. They are on the lowest rung of the noodle ladder, in my opinion, and just like sushi, if the noodles don’t meet my standards, I don’t bother eating them.

Of course, I was being picky and spoilt. My host parents were being nice about considering my tastes, and I think I’ve been giving them a hard time. I haven’t been communicating my food preferences to them very well because it’s painful and awkward to have to explain myself to them. I also dislike having to criticise someone often, which unfortunately does not work will given that I am so fussy. As a result, I’ve grown rather resentful about having to eat things I don’t exactly like and pretend I do.

I ate the noodles reluctantly, but mentioned to my host father that I liked the yellow rice flakes that had been cooked for me a while back.

“We’re trying out new things because Auntie doesn’t like giving you toast every morning and you seem to eat a small variety of things,” my host father replied.

My first reaction was relief, because I was sick of toast as well. My second was, “No, I like most things that Auntie cooks!” And then it occurred to me that what she cooks is probably only a small selection of her real repertoire because I’ve been so picky. I added, “I just don’t like eating too much oil…”

“And you don’t like hard-boiled eggs, or paneer, or parantha, or spicy food, or cream…”

The conversation stopped there because too many thoughts were swimming in my head (“Am I really too picky? Dan has told me that before. But I’ve been trying to be accommodating!”) and Uncle left to play solitaire on his computer.

II. Not everyone is as fussy as me and some people are willing to accommodate.

I couldn’t go another day with a disappointing breakfast, though. And the Maggie Mee was the last straw. So I mustered up my courage and went into Uncle’s room for a heart-to-heart about food.

“I’m sorry I’m so picky about food,” I told him.

“That’s okay; we just want to make sure you feel comfortable here. So if you like something you should just let us know. If you want something you really like you should just tell us.”

This idea was rather foreign to me. As a guest in my host family’s house, I didn’t feel that it was my place to ask for a particular type of food. My host parents are also usually busy resting from the hard day [my host father works two jobs and my host mother goes to work early in the morning] so I don’t want to bother them with my preferences. Despite this, it was clear that I had been communicating nonverbally about my preferences, and this type of communication risked misunderstanding.

Uncle carried on, “It’s rather different for us because Cody and Jack [their previous two interns, both boys] both loved paranthas and would ask us to make them for us all the time. And we like eating paranthas once or twice a week. But you don’t seem to like it very much.”

I then clarified that I actually like paranthas; it’s really the oil that scares me. The first time I was served a parantha I assumed it was made like roti pratas back in Singapore, glistening in ghee. Paranthas are probably made from the same flour as pratas but I think they are made with less oil. My host mother has also taken pains to make it with less oil for me. I decided that it was okay to eat once in a while, and told my host father so. I also made a mental note to expressly ask for it so my host parents would know I want to eat it occasionally.

“So I can speak with Auntie about what she’s making for breakfast?”

“Yes,” Uncle replied. “You could try shopping with Auntie on Sundays, too, so you can pick out foods you want. We’ll try to make you the foods you like for the remaining one month you’re here with us.”

I was interested in shopping in Auntie because that’s another way I can spend time with her and get a sense of what her life is like. I should have probably verbalised that earlier.

The conversation then wandered towards other things, and shortly after was terminated when we ran out of conversation. I walked out of my host parents’ room thankful that I spoke with Uncle about this and also realising that although I was brought up to be polite and accommodating, I don’t have to be that way all the time, especially when it makes me resentful. Maybe accommodating me isn’t as big a challenge for some people as I assume it will be.