Right, acquired tastes, my ar*e. You know what they’re really saying, don’t you? “This stuff is grim, but we can’t afford to throw it away.” So here’s three stories about how you, a literal child, was just too simple to appreciate.

Olives. Tiny, wrinkled balls of sadness swimming in brine. Apparently, these were meant to be a delicacy. I once saw a grown man pick one out of a martini like he’d just fished a spider out of his bath. Acquired taste? More like something you have that has to be surgically implanted to enjoy.

Then there’s Brussels sprouts. These little green landmines disguised as vegetables. My mom used to boil them to the point they were basically plant-based marbles. “Just one bite, Kevin,” she’d plead. “They’re good for you!” Good for who? The trash, that’s who.

Years later, I’m at a fancy restaurant with a date. She orders roasted Brussels sprouts with pancetta. Now, pancetta – that’s an acquired taste I can get behind. But the sprouts? I braced myself for the inevitable visit to flavor hell. Except… it wasn’t hell. It was…alright? They were crispy, not soggy. The pancetta added a salty kick. Maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of truth to that whole “acquired taste” malarkey?

But here’s the thing: it wasn’t some magical transformation. It was simply a matter of preparation. Olives marinated with garlic and herbs? Now we’re talking. Roasted Brussels sprouts with a decent drizzle of balsamic glaze? Sign me up.

Then there was Escargot which always seemed like the Mount Everest of acquired tastes. Tiny little land snails swimming in garlic butter? No thanks, I’ll stick to the gummy worms, please. But then I saw an episode of that travel show where the host slurped one out of its shell with a look of pure bliss on their face. ‘An explosion of savory goodness!’ they declared. Yeah, right. But hey, maybe someday I’ll find myself on a mountaintop in France, gazing out at the rolling vineyards, and suddenly crave a plate of those slimy suckers. Stranger things have happened. Although, knowing me, that mountaintop craving will probably be for a nice, big basket of their world famous Pommes Frites.

So, the next time someone tries to flog off some dubious food with the “acquired taste” line, tell them this: “Listen, if it needs an instruction manual to be enjoyed, it probably shouldn’t be on the menu.”

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Right, let’s dissect this whole “city lover” nonsense, shall we? Apparently, some people find the constant assault on the senses invigorating. They crave the feeling of being sardines in a can, jostled by tourists with selfie sticks and businessmen talking loudly into Bluetooth earpieces the size of their brains.

Me? I like a bit of breathing room. I do not need the soundtrack of my life to be a symphony of car horns and jackhammers. Don’t get me wrong, I was born in Boston. I know the city life. Dodging pigeons the size of terriers, navigating a minefield of discarded pizza boxes and overflowing trash cans – that was my childhood.

But then, thank the Lord, my folks moved us to the suburbs. Now, some comedians like to take potshots at suburbia. They paint a picture of Stepford Wives with perfect lawns and identical SUVs. Listen, here’s the thing: I’ll take a neatly mowed lawn over a puddle of questionable origin any day. And as for the SUVs? Well, at least they can fit all the groceries you need without playing Tetris with your shopping bags.

Now, the “anonymity” of city life? More like a recipe for social awkwardness. You want to avoid eye contact with people? Fine, be my guest. But in the suburbs, there’s a sense of community. You know your neighbors, you wave hello, you might even borrow a cup of sugar in a pinch. Sure, you might hear Mrs. Henderson’s yappy poodle serenade the neighborhood at dawn, but at least you know who to blame.

And let us not forget the “hustle and bustle.” Hustle? More like a frantic scramble for the last overpriced parking spot or latte. Bustle? Try dodging a rogue double stroller while wielding a latte. Give me the peace and quiet of my suburban street any day. I can hear myself think. I can grill and eat without dodging pigeons (although the neighborhood squirrels can be a bit of a nuisance).

Look, the city might be your cup of tea. Maybe you thrive on chaos? But for me, the suburbs are a slice of sanity in a world gone…well, let’s just say a world that could use a bigger dose of weed whackers and friendly barbecues. So, the next time you hear someone wax poetic about the “urban experience,” just remember, there’s a whole world of perfectly manicured lawns and friendly (if slightly nosy) neighbors waiting for those who prefer a life less stressful and a touch more…beige.

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