I’ve always been a fussy eater. As a child, I ruined many family dinners because my overly particular palate meant I would simply refuse to eat a range of dishes. Certain ingredients would make me heave and throw tantrums. My brothers loved lasagne, but it rarely made the dinner table as I couldn’t stand cheese, and bechamel triggered a phobia of white sauces (mayonnaise is my No 1 hate). And don’t even think about making tuna sandwiches around me: the smell alone would make me burst into tears.
I often joke that being a fussy eater has made me feel more like a second-class citizen in this country than my blackness or my sexuality as a gay man. And I’m only being half unserious. Fussy eaters are often derided, belittled for only enjoying chicken tenders and fries, with questions about why we can’t just “grow up” and get over our aversion to certain foods.
