I have never been a fussy eater, unlike my brother who used to be forced to eat one pea for every year of his age, which is not so good since he hit 30. I eat fish warily, and don’t care for offal, but none of this is abnormal.
In my twenties, I acquired a taste for olives, largely thanks to house-sharing with an Italian who cooked everything with loads of olive oil. It makes me very happy to have acquired this taste, because olives are lovely, and I can think of lots of good ways to spend a Saturday afternoon, but sitting in a bar with a bottle of wine and a plate of olives is one of them.
In the last few months, thanks to Pete and his predilection for sag paneer, I have started eating spinach. At first it was just the highly spiced stuff, and only in combination with that deliciously bland fried cheese; but slowly, bravely, I tried some baby spinach leaves in my rocket salad. I think I may have eaten them before, without realising what it was.
I’ve discovered a whole green world of new flavour and texture that I’ve never experienced before! Menus suddenly have a new section on them: it turns up in cannelloni with ricotta cheese, on muffins underneath poached eggs, mixed up with all manner of interesting things in Indian restaurants. I feel like a new kind of food has been invented just for me.
So, olives in my twenties, spinach in my thirties, and I fully expect to be joyfully consuming tripe by the middle of the next decade.