This is just a little story I wrote when I was a freshman in high school.
Frightening Food Frustration
When I was kid, I didnít consider food to be one of the essential things in life, for me, it was just something I had to endure. My nanny would always get very frustrated with my eating habits. I could feed myself very well since age two, but at some point in my childhood, between the ages of six to ten, it got to the point that my nanny had to feed me herself; with the food in one hand and a big black leather belt in the other. For some reason I simply didnít like food; vegetables made me nauseous, rice, beans and meat, which are the main components in any Dominican lunch, so common that it is now known as La Bandera Dominicana (the Dominican flag), were the worst combination of all; a poisonous mixture created by my evil nanny to torture me. Juices and melts seemed to me like a disgusting slime capable of inducing stomach pain and diarrhea.
Like any other kid I loved candy. Actually I think it was more of an addiction than affection. I could eat candy all day; it never made me sick. Birthday parties were my favorite because they had treasure chests filled with sugary deliciousness called PiŮatas. The objectives of parties were to supply me with at least a monthís recompense for my nannyís ghastly cooking. One of the happiest memories in my life is my friend Stephanieís eighth-birthday party; she and I hid her piŮata under her uncleís Steve bed and blamed her older brother for itís disappearance. We feasted from that piŮata every Saturday for four months.
My aversion to healthy food only lasted until I was eleven years old, when my nanny told me that I didnít have any boobs because I wouldnít eat chicken breasts. That statement seemed very logical to me because my little cousin, who was two years younger than me, ate chicken breasts almost on a daily basis and her boobs were bigger than mine. So, I included some healthier ingredients to my menu, like: rice, beans, lots of chicken breasts, avocados, and I started drinking juice. I still wouldnít look at vegetables though, but, people noticed the improvement in my thighs, my arms, and my boobs, so my nanny was right after all.
When I was twelve I moved from the Dominican Republic to New York. My mom had been living there for ten years and she wanted me to go high school in the United States. I arrived to New York on December 5, 2005, and at first sight the city wasnít like anything I had expected. The sun was shining bright, birds were splashing each other in a little puddle, outside the airport, and dozens of people were walking up and down the streets. But my mom had told me to wear the warmest clothes I had because it world be freezing cold, it all seemed unnecessary now. If it was so cold, why was the sun so bright? Why didnít the birds freeze? Why would people go out of the tepid protection of their homes? It all made sense once I stepped out of the airport. The coldest breeze I have ever felt assaulted my body so fast that my only reaction was to run back in and stay there until the temperature changed. However, my mom had other plans to get me accustomed to the cold. She made me walk for five minutes until we reached our car in the parking lot. Those were, without a doubt, the worse five minutes of my existence, so far.
The night I arrived there was the biggest snow storm I had ever seen; actually, the only one Iíd ever seen. I was much excited about it; snow was one of the things I was mostly looking forward to, and that night I got twenty four inches of it. The next morning my mom took me shopping because the only things I brought with me were the ones I was wearing. We bought boots, sweaters, jeans, underwear, gloves, and pretty much anything I could need. By eleven in the morning were both starving, so we went into the first McDonaldís we found.
McDonaldís was a magnificent sight to behold. It was bright, a very luminescent kind of bright, almost blindingly bright. There were people eating and conversing who seemed to be enjoying themselves. Almost everyone was speaking Spanish, and it seemed kind of odd, as if I hadnít left my country. When it was our turn to order, I didnít know what to do because everything seemed so delicious, so I picked the lucky number seven.
Number seven didnít look like the one in the picture at all. It was supposed to be a cheeseburger, and I guess thatís what it was before a truck ran over it and left it flat as a pancake. When I picked it up I made the error of squishing it a bit and it started dripping grease on my blouse. I was afraid of tasting it because I was already too disappointed, but I did it anyway. It was horrendous. Before then, I didnít know about the existence of powdered eggs, and I thought that my nanny was the only one with the capacity of torturing a personís body with malodorous food preparations; on my second day I discovered that there was a whole assemblage of them. After the first bite of my first, and last, cheeseburger, I ran to the bathroom and got it out of my system.
My first experience with a cheeseburger thought me several things: 1) you should never trust something that is dripping grease into your body; 2) If something doesnít smell appetizing it is because it isnít; 3) It is better to starve yourself for a few hours than to eat the first atrocity available; 4) Nannies are saints sent by god to help you with in the weakest state of your development, And 5) food is supposed to give you energy, nourishment, and bigger boobs.