I feel that while growing up, between all the church suppers and family reunions, I ate a least one “covered dish” meal a week. Sometimes I would get lucky, and there would be the red plastic plates with the food section dividers, being able to put my chicken fingers in the largest portion of the plate, then green bean casserole and my peanut butter pie in the other two divisions. Other times I wasn’t as fortunate, ending up with a plain white  Styrofoam plate with no dividers: my deviled eggs would slide into my cold macaroni and cheese, which adjoined to my mashed potatoes. I couldn’t stand for the different foods on my plate to touch each other.

What made it worse is the response when people would find out about my issue with my foods mixing. I had to hear this: “Why do you care if they touch? It’s all going to the same place anyway…”

Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

That is one of the dumbest statements I have heard throughout my life: “It’s all going to the same place anyway.” My answer: Yes, but my tongue isn’t in my stomach, genius.

I need to be able to enjoy each individual taste. Unless it’s already supposed to consist of different foods within itself like soup or pizza or a sandwich, let the food speak for itself. Not with the added flavor of an unsuitable mate. For anyone to whom it truly doesn’t matter because “it’s all going to the same place anyway”, then I will gladly serve them their next meal, right after it’s been ground up into milkshake form in a blender.