A first challenge

I have said goodbye to my two sons, kissed my husband and can’t wait to set off on my own adventure.
I’m almost 50 and the last two decades have been sedate. I used to be a daring girl who backpacked along the med, spent a summer at an archeological dig in Israel, and tried and failed at grape-picking in France. The pinnacle was Zambia – two years with Voluntary Services Overseas at a mission hospital in the rural north.
But these days I visit the same places, eat the same foods – I even cook from the same goddamned recipes! I’ve become so dull that I won’t even try a new sandwich bar in case the hygiene isn’t good and the food upsets my stomach.
It wasn’t always like this, and certainly not when it came to food. Growing up nothing fazed my palate. I ate everything my Scottish Granny put before me – including tripe, tongue and cloutie dumpling. As I began to travel, I tried all the oddities that came my way. The stale canapés behind the counter in Italian bars looked appealing just because of their colour. And street food – any street food - had to be eaten just because it was there. I’ve dined on caterpillars in Africa and even won an octopus eating competition in Greece. If I was hungry I ate what was available – roasted vegetables at a roadside market, plate sized mushrooms that fed two for an easy meal and fishballs at a Thai stall (do fish have testicles?). I ate the lot with little thought of getting sick.
Hygiene was never a strong point for me. When I set out for a two years with VSO I forgot to empty the fridge before I left. Now a scan of those cold shelves takes place at least once a week.
I suppose it was raising children that made me more discerning. Hygiene is now so important that I stay away from prawns, tuna and even chicken at London sandwich bars. I approach our local greasy spoon with reluctance and sniff haughtily when my husband suggests I try their sausages. I refuse to buy meat from anyone but a reputable store and throw away packets of unopened food the day before the sell-by date. I have walked out of restaurants because the menu was dirty, and I scrutinize the rubber belts at supermarket check outs for food stains – and cover them with a newspaper to protect my groceries.
And I won’t do hotels that offer full board because they have every incentive to serve leftovers again and again.
How did I become such a fastidious scaredy cat?
I hate that I carry around packets of nuts in case the food I’m presented with looks grim. Friends stare as I shuffle their tender undercooked meat under some salad. I try to distract them with entertaining talk and hope they don’t notice that I’ve limited myself to safe bread and maybe a few green beans.
I’m a food wimp and fear I’ll grow into the old lady who uses a clean handkerchief to hold onto bus railings – do you know how many people touch those things?
My fears have to be confronted before I become desperately abnormal. I’ve had more than 20 years in a relatively clean kitchen but it’s time to step out of my cosy environment where even a sandwich from Pret is a gastric challenge and a new lunch venue is a step too far.
So I am returning to my adventurous days, to the world that gave me malaria, pneumonia and, of course, dysentery.
I’m heading back to Zambia.