Even at age 6, I was already a finicky eater. I get it from my grandfather on my mother’s side, whose sworn enemy is the tomato. You’d be lucky to see him eat anything after a tomato has so much as touched his plate. In restaurants, if, say, a little dipping bowl of ketchup or a cherry tomato garnish should happen to come with the meal, he’ll make my grandmother pick anything red off the plate before he starts eating. Doesn’t even matter if she’s not at the table. He’ll call her over. It’s cute, really.

I, a spoiled only-child, adopted Grandpa’s mealtime liberties as my own--thumbing my nose at the round red devil, in fact, pushing away most vegetables and, in general, anything that “just didn’t look tasty.” And even though I couldn’t throw tantrums nearly as well as my grandfather, my family would usually kow-tow and gently set a hot dog or fish sticks down on my plate instead of the quiche or the damn meatloaf.


I remember eating my first egg on the plane to England. The airline had run out of the cold cereal meal and the pancake meal, so I ended up stuck with the scrambled egg meal. Those flight attendants were lucky. Every muscle in my body ached to get up and fling myself up and down the aisles, flailing and screaming and doing the “I HAAAAAAAATE THE SCRAAAAAAMBLED EGGS” dance, flipping up the tray tables with the food still on ‘em, stealing poor innocent travelers’ Frosted Flakes and shoving rubbery pancakes in the pilot’s face, screaming “You did this to me. You. Look me in the eyes while I’m slapping you with a faux-pancake. You. (smack) Did. This. (smack) To. Me. (smack smack smack)”

Somehow, even though it wasn’t in my spoiled nature to resist anything, I managed to resist creating a scene (obviously my will at six was much stronger than it is now--these days, I start knocking things over in Starbucks when the cashier doesn’t leave room for cream in my coffee). I remained in my seat, poking and prodding my lukewarm pastel-yellow globules of yuck until I finally mustered up the gumption to pop one of those egg bits--and I use the term “egg” loosely, as the airline most assuredly did--into my young, unsuspecting mouth. Ick. I took more than an hour to finish the meal.


That summer, in addition to England, my parents and I traveled through Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and, finally, the Netherlands.

Years earlier, my parents had come to the Netherlands with my dad’s folks. They arrived at the airport with no idea of where to stay or how to get there. On top of that, my grandmother had packed as many bags as the other three combined, so everyone was hauling luggage around the Amsterdam airport in an attempt to figure out where they were and where they needed to go.

As if by magic, a cab driver appeared, shoved all four of them and their luggage into a taxi no bigger than my six-year-old toenail and whisked them away from the airport, darting through alleys and dodging traffic at 100 miles per hour until he finally arrived at a quaint little bed and breakfast.

Once everyone peeled off of the back seat and wrestled their way out of the car, they met a lady named Mrs. Duranda, who ran the B & B. She smiled and welcomed them in and they spent their stay in Amsterdam at her place. They had a wonderful time. Somehow their deranged little magical cabman had plopped them down at what they assumed must be the greatest, least known lodge in the city.

So, of course, when my folks came back to Amsterdam with kid in tow, they shacked up again at Mrs. Duranda’s Bed & Breakfast.


I, still recoiling from the joys of Denmark’s Legoland earlier that day, arrived at Mrs. Duranda’s exhausted and cranky. I think the little egg/dung pellets from the airplane had settled like stones in my stomach and rested there for the entirety of my European vacation, turning me into a perpetually cranky little monkey. (That, and my parents had made me go to Stonehenge.)

I greeted Mrs. Duranda with a balance of contempt and dismissal. Even though she tried to win me over by turning the TV to a Dutch version of Sesame Street (which is not “cool” for six year olds to watch, anyway) with an (I sh*t you not) Blue Big Bird. Of course, they were all talking in their little Amsterdamish language and I wasn’t having none of it. I’d show her. Think she could placate me with her Dutch TV and her hoity-toity bed & breakfast, did she? I knew just what to do to let her know that this six-year-old was too smart for her old tricks: Fall Asleep.

I must’ve slept for fourteen hours.

When I woke up, I’d even forgotten I was in Amsterdam. The next hour or so passed in a blur and I eventually found myself pulled up to the breakfast table with my folks. So, this was a bed & breakfast, huh? Well, I could at least expect a nice hearty meal to begin my day. Hell, shaking off my slumber, I was even ready to dive into some Dutch delicacy and broaden my tastes by the slightest bit. Sleep had readjusted my mindframe and turned me once again into a jovial little moptop.

Mrs. Duranda came in and set down a plate of steaming scrambled eggs right in front of me.

Eggs.

Eggs? I didn’t want eggs. I was ready to try anything. Crepes, even. But, after my airline egg experience, there was no way that I was going to put another little yellow yuck pellet into my sensitive mouth. No way.

So I did what any six year old would’ve done in the same situation. I pouted. Oh, I pouted something fierce. And, man, could I pout with the best of them. Only-children learn at a young age how to exert their will, and without saying a word I had my parents full attention. They knew I wasn’t going to eat the damn eggs. I knew I wasn’t gonna eat the damn eggs. We were in agreement. And Mrs. Duranda came along and ruined everything.

Our hostess snuck up behind me as I was doing perhaps the best pouting I’d ever done in my life. She noticed I wasn’t eating my eggs and in one fell swoop, she grabbed my fork, held my chin and began to shovel egg bit after egg bit into my mouth against my will. I was gagging on the eggs, but she just kept feeding me. Bite after bite. I wanted to call for help but the eggs blocked my throat. I looked at my parents, pleading with my eyes. Mom. Dad. Help me. Can’t you see that she’s feeding me eggs against my will. Do something. Please. I’ll never pout again, I promise...

But Mom & Dad just sat there laughing. Oh, it was one big eggy joke to them. What fun to see a Dutch madwoman gagging your kid with eggs. Oh callooh, callay! Let’s all laugh at the little egg-eating six year old. And Mrs. Duranda just kept shoving those eggs into my mouth (everything was in slow-motion, now). Eventually she began to laugh, too, and her high-pitched chortle rose above even my parents’ belly-laughs. And I, a helpless six-year-old, choked on egg after egg after egg after egg after egg egg egg.


I’ve never eaten an egg since. I’m sickened even at the thought.

To this day, Mrs. Duranda’s high-pitched squeal penetrates my dreams, and I wake up with a foul taste in my mouth. An egg-like taste, even though I haven’t eaten a single egg in over 16 years. I’m haunted.

Yeah, I’m sure there have been more important experiences in my life. My memorable experiences, more trying experiences. Yet I can’t help but think that the egg incident was where everything began to go horribly, horribly wrong.




This excerpt from repulsemonkey’s memoir, The Tragic Life of an Underfed Simian, is actually a part of The Damn Grocery Write Off, organized by the lovely prfstars and the radiant nathsmom and featuring a cross-section of the best damn authors this here epinions site has ever had the pleasure of feeding:

AggieBrett, Elvisdo, Hard_to_Please, JKKelley, Jsaunt, Kellydeal, Lobstergirl, Nathsmom, PrfStars, Repulsemonkey, Sloucho, Sordid-1, Sundogg99, Tlimjoco, and (wouldn't-ya-know-it) 29th_Candidate (as if we all haven't heard that one before)

I know this tragic childhood account may have moved you to the point of paralysis, but do try to check out their work. These really are a lot of my favorite authors here, and you’d be doing yourself a favor by reading any damn one of ‘em. Damn. (final “damn” inserted for the sole purpose of the monkey’s own amusement)


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