And I still don't got milk

Milk tastes like nothing.

That’s what I told my mom at the age of three when she asked me why I gagged every time I tried to drink some.

I was the kid who was drinking pickle juice, sucking on lemon slices, craving black licorice, guzzling root beer, devouring ginger, licking the flavor off salt ‘n vinegar chips (only available in Canada at the time), and of course sinking my teeth into bitter chocolate. I wanted sour. I wanted bitter. I wanted spicy, extra salty, and super sweet. And all the combinations of the above.

I am now the adult who is drinking pickle juice, craving black licorice, downing root beer, you get the picture. I don’t suck on lemon slices anymore, but I do prefer an Amstel Light with four or five green olives stuffed down into the bottle.

I’ve gotten used to the looks of horror and disgust. It embarrassed me a bit when I was little, but then I started feeling proud. I’m not afraid of taste, I cry. I like my food the way I like my life. With some kick, some edge, and some ferocity along with the super sweet. I am a real woman.

That is until I had a conversation with a couple of coworkers recently and learned about supertasters - the superheroes of taste. Born with more taste buds than the rest of us and the special power to experience flavors more intensely. They’re out there tasting flavors in broccoli that my simple tongue can’t even begin to comprehend. It turns out that I'm not so fierce after all. It’s just that I was born with maybe ½ of a taste bud. I am not brave, I am not super. And, I am a second-rate taster.

Off to drown my sorrows in dark chocolate covered black licorice, salt ‘n vinegar greek olives and a cocktail of pickle juice, root beer and ginger ale.