Q: How do I teach myself to enjoy eating seaweed? I feel like I’m missing out.
That’s quite the question you’ve got there, Jennifer. The first order of business is to explore my fear that you’re tricking me into discussing some kind of pervy water-soluble chia-pube arrangement on a family-friendly blog. I advise my patient and thirsty readers to fix yourselves a dumb cocktail while I look into this.
OK, I just checked Urban Dictionary, and it appears Jennifer may indeed be referring to matters either genital or marijuanal. But just as WebMD’s goal is to convince us every hangnail is cancer, Urban Dictionary will not rest until we believe every noun doubles as frathole slang for a degrading and fictional sex act. We don’t have time for that nonsense here, so let’s just assume Jennifer wants to lead a richer culinary life.
I suggest going with the old carrot and stick approach (that’s when you do six shots of Jager and stick a carrot—wait, no, it’s when you beat a mule until it eats a carrot or some damn thing). I believe Jennifer to be a southern woman, which means she likely has a dedicated sex-and-whiskey hammock. She might try keeping a stash of edible seaweed on her dedicated-sex-and-whiskey-hammock-side table and throwing some down the ol’ whiskey chute after each pleasurable, respectful, and consensual hammock ride. This would associate seaweed with fruitful leisure (note: a hammock is no place for aggressive sex or drinking), and after enough training and positive reinforcement, Jennifer will find herself making happily inappropriate noises and faces on half-price nori night at her local sushi-and-whiskey canteen.
Now that we’ve definitively settled how to make oneself like seaweed, I think it’s time to wind things back to before the beginning and ask why one would bother self-assigning such a task in the first place. As Jennifer herself noted, it’s not as if she’s averse to beer or cheese or some other pillar of our edible civilization. Why not just let the seaweed go, then?
My very reasonable and accommodating wife hates dogs and mushrooms. The dog thing makes sense—she was partially eaten by one in her younger youth—but the mushroom matter seems to have no rational basis, since she likes most other foods and all other vegetables. I’m not some kind of dirt-foraging, shit-combing weirdo, but I don’t mind a judicious scattering of mushrooms on the occasional pizza or in the browner soups. But I’ve never once tried to convince my wife to eat a mushroom, because who cares? They’re mushrooms. It’s seaweed. You’ve got to live a little, but don’t stress yourself out by dishonoring your harmless aversions in an attempt to live too much.