When I was little, getting me to eat was an art form (and occasionally a spectator sport). My parents would actually dye my spaghetti blue just to convince me to give it a chance. On our Friday night trips to Foodie’s, they’d order the Hawaiian and I’d happily eat a pile of ham and pineapple while they ate cheese pizza. By six or seven, my limited palette was not that of your typical child; pizza and pasta were both out of the question, but calamari (especially the ones with the legs!) and buttery escargot were favorites, and Mom would have to swipe my small hand away from the counter if she wanted any vegetables left to go in a salad.
Now I’ll try anything accepted as cuisine by a group that meets the scientific sampling size standards (and doesn’t scream “Jim Jones”). I love testing out new restaurants, and here in D.C. I’m fairly certain I could try a different one every night and never run out. I’m a sucker for tasting menus, ‘the best [insert food here]‘ in town and ‘local specialities’ when on the road. I’m no food critic, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pretend. I apologize to those whose wallets will surely suffer for the benefit of my blog, and thanks in advance for only laughing on the inside when I take very amateur pictures of my food (and possibly of yours).