For years—no, decades—I was relentlessly hassled, harassed, and side-eyed for being a picky, boring, and allegedly “unadventurous” eater. People acted like I was staging a culinary protest, when really, I just knew what I liked and what I absolutely did not. I wasn’t trying to be difficult; I simply didn’t want to chew things that offended my soul.

Let me be clear: I do not have ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder). ARFID is a legitimate and serious feeding or eating disorder where individuals drastically limit the volume or variety of foods they consume, often leading to malnutrition, weight loss, and psychosocial struggles. That’s not me. I’m not afraid of food—I just have taste buds with very strong opinions and a nose that could moonlight as a drug-sniffing beagle at the airport.

Let’s rewind to my early food awakening, aka The Cilantro Crisis. The first time I tasted cilantro, it was like my mouth got ambushed by Irish Spring soap. Or maybe Ivory. Either way—soap. People told me I was being dramatic. A food diva. That it was all in my head.

Turns out? It was in my head—genetically! A few years later, a doctor confirmed that I have a genetic variation that causes cilantro to taste like soap. I wanted to grab a megaphone and yell “I TOLD YOU!” into the void. Sweet, soapy vindication.

And then, things got even weirder. After my head injury in 2023, my already sensitive sense of smell and taste kicked into hyperdrive. Like, dialed up to eleven. I started smelling things no one else could—phantom odors, subtle whiffs, distant traces of weirdness in the air. I was like a bloodhound with social anxiety.

That’s when I discovered I’m what science calls a super taster and a super smeller. Apparently, my taste buds are throwing a rave in my mouth at all times—super tasters have up to 100 times more taste buds per square inch than regular ol’ tasters. It’s less fun than it sounds. Bitter things? Bitterer. Spicy things? Napalm. Texture issues? You betcha.

As for the smelling part—technically it’s called hyperosmia, which means I have an abnormally heightened sense of smell. This can be cool, like when I catch a whiff of cookies baking five houses away. But it’s also a curse, like when I know someone microwaved fish in the break room before I even walk in the building.

All of this finally explains why I struggle to find foods that are palatable—and why, once I find something I do like, I will eat it with wild devotion until I’ve exhausted it from my rotation (see: The Great Cottage Cheese Phase of 2012).

My gastroenterologist once told me I should be a food critic because I can taste and detect every nuance and texture—even the ones I hate. And I do hate a few. Like coleslaw. And before you judge me, ask me sometime about The Coleslaw Debacle of 1973. That day lives rent-free in my trauma bank.

Ain’t that some shit?