Hold the Mustard

I hate mushrooms. Maybe it's something my mother ate or didn't eat while I was in utero or maybe it's a taste association from some long-repressed childhood trauma, but there's something about those slimy little fungi that I just can't stand. I don't know when it started, but I know I hate them.

I had a ten-minute long conversation about food this morning. That in itself may not sound overly remarkable, but this particular food conversation was with a three-year old girl. One of my favourite girls in the whole world, actually. She loves broccoli but she hates lettuce. She likes hot dogs on a bun with ketchup, hold the mustard. She thinks melted cheese is delicious.

Two things struck me while we were speaking:

1) I don't think I've ever met a three-year old before who was capable of holding a conversation for this long

2) This girl's a real person

I know it sounds ridiculous, but there's something about children that makes them rather surreal. I look at babies on the subway. I will avoid eye contact with everyone around me, but for some reason I'm comfortable looking a baby, or even a preschooler, straight in the face. What's with that? At what point does a child become a person with a knowledge of social norms and the capacity to judge me? When do they develop opinions?

I love that little girl, and our food conversation was the highlight of my day (well, one of them, at least. I had a pretty good day). I've always just figured the kid liked me because I was around -- kids don't discriminate, right? But if she knows she likes broccoli and she knows she hates lettuce, then maybe, actually, for real, she thinks I'm pretty alright.

That makes me feel pretty alright.