So when I was in junior high, I went to "camp" for two summers at the University of Southern Mississippi as a part of a program for gifted teenagers. The first summer I took my first class in psychology, which was taught by a wonderfully cultured, fascinating woman who was deaf in her right ear.* One of the few things I specifically remember learning that summer (as compared to during one of the 70-bajillion psychology classes I have taken since) was about taste aversion conditioning, also called the Garcia effect. The simple premise was this: people will avoid eating foods if, in the past, they have become sick around the same time that they ate that food - regardless of whether the food was actually the cause of the illness. It made sense to me then and it makes sense to me now, because there is one food out there on this great green Earth, the mere smell of which is enough to make me clench my stomach.
I was, shall we say, a bit of a sensitive child. Sometimes a bit dramatic. And like almost all children, I had foods I didn't like. For my brother, it was lima beans; for me, it was quiche. Not likely to present much of a problem, one would think. And one would be wrong. Sometime in the mid-80's my parents had become enamored of the uber-convenient "Pour-a-Quiche" cartons of egg product available in the freezer aisle of the local Winn-Dixie. So one night at dinner they decided to serve one to us and I, well, I was not having it. I begged and pleaded. I ate everything else on my plate and assured them I was full. I'm quite sure I suggested half a dozen alternative meal options, but they were not to be convinced. I began to cry and so pulled out what I felt was sure to be my trump card: "If you make me eat it, I will THROW. UP." They were not convinced. At this point, the crying had turned to full on blubbering, and I was nearing the point of hyperventilation. Then, in a performance I like to think would make any true method actor proud, I proceeded to take about three bites of my quiche and vomit them (along with the rest of my stomach's contents) on myself, the table and, of course, the quiche that remained on my plate. My eyes stinging from the tears, trying to catch my breath, I looked at them indignantly and said simply: "See?!?!?!"
Now, I know that the quiche did not actually make me vomit. True, that combination of egg and cream could reasonably be expected to cause some discomfort in even the most mildly-dairy intolerant. But I know that what actually led to my display was the combination of crying and hyperventilating and, maybe just maybe, the desire to act out enough to teach my parents a lesson. I KNOW THAT. But I also know what the Garcia effect can mean, and armed with that knowledge, I have steered clear of quiche ever since. And I have never vomited at the dinner table since. (How's that for the powerful reinforcing effects of avoidance? My cognitive-behavioral therapy professor would be proud...)
All of this is to explain why, when I showed up at my aunt and uncle's house today and was greeted with the news that our lunch would be not one but TWO quiches, I knew I was in trouble. "The Garcia effect!" I thought to myself. But there was no way I was going to turn down the meal my aunt had lovingly prepared (hers, to be clear, was homemade). I did my best, picking out the vegetables and trying to push the contents of my plate around enough that it appeared some had been eaten. And yet I still felt sick as a dog while I was doing it, and have been queasy ever since.
....
Yeah, that story starts off strong enough but there's nowhere to really go with it at the end. "And so now my tummy hurts. So I'm blogging about it. I am lame." But at least I know that, right? And knowing is half the battle!
*This has nothing to do with
anything; it is just the first time I can remember meeting someone who
was even partially deaf.
Recent Comments