He must have the constitution of an ox

I think we’ve clearly established my status as a bona fide food snob. Being a food snob is hard work, but someone has to do it. I’ve come up against some pretty tough haters in my time as a food snob. There are those that believe that chickens really do have small bits of flesh in the guise of ready breaded nuggets, those who think that ‘a really huge portion for £3.99’ constitutes quality, those who think that truffles are a scam, because, and I quote, ‘mushrooms is mushrooms, innit.’ KILL ME NOW.
However, the herculean task of the food snob is to cohabit with the antifoodsnob. And by that, I do not mean those people who love their frozen pizzas, their ready meals, their doner kebabs. Because, and while I do not take pride in saying this, those people who love their junk, at least LOVE their junk. They get some sort of happy kick from the trans-fats and excess salts and E numbers. at least, in some perverse way, it’s about flavour. Sure, they’ll never understand the pure joy of a soft shell crab spider roll from Zuma, but then again, that is true for many people, and I don’t have the time or energy to hate all of them. No, the antifoodsnob I speak of is one who lives by this motto: EAT TO LIVE, DON’T LIVE TO EAT. blow me down. I cannot fucking cope.
Okay, I am the first to admit that I am living on the cheap. Almost every night I eat some variation of an oriental rice dish (enough carbs so that I don’t get hungry: check. Fresh vegetables: check. Chilli: check. that’s the big three right there.) but my rice dish is still delicious, nutritious and most importantly, it takes me one step closer to having a wad of cash to splurge on delicious food when one of my many visitors who will be landing soon enough arrive. I love good food, but I also love sharing that experience with people, so I am more than happy to eat my delicious bowl of thai curry and rice and save up the money I didn’t spend so that when my friends arrive, we can go to CUPCAKE and eat them out of house and home. But I digress... So, cohabiting with an ‘Eattolive.....r.' It’s hell. The man I am living with has such a shocking ambivalence toward what he puts into his mouth it makes me cower in radiated shame. He doesn’t feel it, but jesus man, have a heart. Some of us do. He makes these.... well, I can only describe them as soups, that I swear would have a homeless person pocketing a bread roll and professing, ‘I’m good mate, thanks anyway.’ THe other day he made one of chunks of cucumber, chunks of courgette and more dill than is healthy. Oh, and brussel sprouts. And trust me, before you even BEGIN to think that the combination of cucumber and dill could work, just stop. The chunks were so big they could’ve been used as beacons to direct planes into parking bays. Another ‘soup’ that made me almost die was a combination of tomatoes, broccoli, carrots, potatoes and CUT UP VIENNAS. The remainders of both of those gourmet abominations are still sitting in my fridge. Every time I open the door to retrieve something from it, I have a small, but distinct mini sick. Last night I had a dream that I was at Shelley and Pauls for the Singapore GP and Shelley made one of her incredible oriental soups. In the dream, we ate all the soup (which was, even in REM, amazing) and at the end of meal, kyle wanted more. For some reason, Shelley and Paul's was somehow in Berlin. So, I said to Kyle, “there’s more in the kitchen.” Kyle trotted off to refill his bowl. He returned with a bowl of green coloured SLUDGE. It was the cucumber/courgette/dill/brussel spout disaster.
The ensuing conversation went like this:
Me: Kyle, that’s not the soup we were eating. Check on the stove.
Kyle: There was no more on the stove. I found this is the fridge.
Me: Does it look like Shelley made that?
Kyle: No... but it was in the fridge... so I figured....
Me: Get that out of here. Seriously.
Kyle then retreats to kitchen to pour away green sludge. He returns with a bowl of the vegetables and vienna fiasco that makes me have the mini sick.
Me: Kyle.... What is in your hand?
Kyle: Soup! Can I also not eat this one?
By this stage Shelley and I are almost frothing at the mouth.
Me: NO! NO YOU CAN’T! YOU CANNOT EAT THAT SHIT. IT’S SHIT! THERE ARE CUT UP HOTDOGS IN IT! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!
and then, in my dream, I cried. I actually cried. as in, I wept. Because I know that the people who understand this shit about me are very far away and it’s not easy caring about gremolata when it feels like most people don’t even know how to spell the word. Don’t think that I haven’t been judged for bringing my Microplane to Berlin. That’s right. I travel with my own grater. Because I can almost guarantee you that if I come to stay at your house, 98% of the time your grater will just not be good enough. I am a freak like that. I really am.

A quick but important disclaimer: I know that, that dream sequence would never happen in reality. I know that if Kyle went to the kitchen, saw the pot on the stove was empty, went to the fridge and saw those two abominations of so called ‘meals’ he would probably just throw them out. Without anyone’s consent or knowledge, he would just rid the house of them. Because he understands me like that. While I am food freak, I am not alone. It’s a family trait. So I can be a food snob. I’m in good company as a food snob. In fact, there’s no company in which I would rather be.