This morning I read Gotham Gal’s post about how she, a born and bred food person, has had a significant impact over her husband, for whom food was merely a source of nutrition before they met. She describes it as two worlds colliding, and I understand her completely. I, too, am a food person (in case you hadn’t noticed), and I realize that I have an incredibly hard time understanding those who aren’t. Is it really possible that people go on vacation without thinking about where and what they’re going to eat next, even as they are in the midst of a meal? That people exist who don’t drool over the glossy pages of Gourmet and Bon Appetit as if they were porn? That there are those who don’t relish the joys of strolling through a bustling outdoor food market, with all of its dazzling colors, mouthwatering aromas, and, if you time it right, free samples? Apparently, such people exist. And I am dating one of them.
I have ventured into this strange territory before. Nathan, when I met him, was definitely not food-oriented in the same way I am. But after dating for several years and living together for a decent chunk of that time, I think there was no way that my foodish tendencies couldn’t have rubbed off on him. At one point after we stopped dating, we met up for lunch, where he described to me how he had recently made pesto with some basil he had recently gotten at the greenmarket. Now, I don’t claim to have that much influence over people generally, but I am convinced that he probably hadn’t uttered the phrase "I made pesto" before spending time with me.
Mark and I have our moments. The collision of two vastly different food worlds can be wildly funny. Each of us described our dinner at The Grocery in an email to my friend Rhea, and it was hard to believe we were both at the same table (I want to publish it here, but we’re in negotiations about the intellectual property rights). But it can also be tricky. When we were in London, I mentioned that the one thing I really wanted to do on our day off was go to the Borough Hall Market (pictured above). At one point, Mark asked if it would be okay if he brought a book. I’m sure I gave him a look like he had just slapped me across the face. It wasn’t so much that I would have minded if he didn’t want to come along with me — I’m fine doing things on my own and if he really didn’t want to go, he shouldn’t — but I merely could not comprehend at all that someone wouldn’t want to spend a few hours on a gorgeous spring morning at a market. Especially if that time happened to coincide with lunch. He must have recognized the shock and horror on my face — we went, and the book, if it came along at all, stayed tucked away. I don’t really know if he enjoyed it, but he didn’t seem miserable, and I do recall that he went back for a second taste at the stall selling olive tapenade, so it couldn’t have been too bad.
Any advice on how to interact with these non-food-focused types (or amusing anecdotes) would be greatly appreciated.
PS — I wrote this entire entry in bed. Gotta love the laptop!
