Learning to Love Food Again: Turns Out, I’m Not That Picky

Before I tell you where I am now — curious, adventurous, and ready to try almost anything — I need to tell you where I started: terrified of cake.

Not because I didn’t like it. But because it usually meant spending the rest of the day curled up, puking my guts out, with my throat itching and swollen. I grew up with a severe egg allergy, and in Pakistan, that made things a little complicated.
Scratch that — it made things very complicated.

For the longest time, no one really asked. We’d order food for the table and everyone would just dig in, family-style. No one questioned what was in anything — and I wasn’t food literate enough to understand that what I was experiencing, was an actual allergy. I’d eat what everyone else did, then start scratching my throat and trying to explain that something felt very wrong. But it kept happening. Over and over again.

One restaurant in particular still haunts me — Dynasty, a super popular Chinese spot in Karachi that my entire family was obsessed with. But literally everything had egg. And every time we went, I got sick. Eventually, just hearing we were going there would bring instant tears. I’d beg to stay home. I was little, but the trauma felt massive.

So I stopped trying new foods.
It became an unspoken rule — I just wouldn’t eat anything unfamiliar. And it became a thing. A fight, actually — especially with my dad. He was determined to get me to try hummus. Hummus!! I’d refuse every time. And my siblings? They’d sit back and treat it like a game. I swear they had bets going.
“He’s not gonna win. She’ll never try it.”
And they were right. For almost 20 years, I didn’t.

I was that high school senior still bringing a lunchbox — always the same thing: chicken tenders. (To be fair, people would steal them.) But the comments were always there.
“Oh… you still bring a lunchbox?”
And don’t even get me started on my Subway order: just the bread and grilled chicken. No sauce. No cheese. No veggies. Just vibes. My cousin still makes fun of it to this day.

I didn’t have preferences. I had fear.

It wasn’t until 2021 that I got my first allergy test done, confirming how severe it really was. And now, in 2025, I carry a prescribed EpiPen.

Allergy awareness in Pakistan? Basically non-existent. I learned to test how much a server actually knew by asking about common egg-based dishes. One time, I went to this oh-so-trendy pop-up and asked if their “freshly made” pasta had eggs in it. The manager looked at me, smiled, and said, “No, no — look at all this!” while proudly gesturing at the sauce and protein pairings like she was unveiling a magic trick.

Miss. Please. I’m not asking about your creamy Alfredo. I’m asking if the pasta dough is going to try and kill me. (A little dramatic, my bad — but still.)

Eventually, I just started saying no before anyone could even ask. I became “the picky one.” Not because I wanted to be — but because I had to be.

And that sucked. Because I’ve always loved food. And so did everyone around me.

The smell of my mom’s yakhni pulao simmering in the kitchen. Asking my driver to pull over every single time I saw a “bhuttay wala” (pakistani street corn vendor) on the road. The frozen dumplings I could eat by the dozen. Even watching people eat cookies made me want to know what the hype was about. Food was emotional. Comforting. Something I was always around — but never fully allowed to enjoy.

Until I moved to Toronto.

Suddenly, I had access to ingredient labels I could trust. Servers actually knew what was in the food. There were egg-free pasta options. Desserts I never thought I’d get to try. And kitchens where chefs took allergies seriously instead of brushing them off.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to be scared of food.

That changed everything.

I started cooking more — not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Between classes. At midnight. Whenever I needed a break. Food became therapy. It made me feel capable. Safe. Curious again.

And somewhere along the way, I realized: I’m not picky anymore.

Now? As long as there’s no egg, I’ll try almost anything.
Foie gras? Bring it.
Uni? Obsessed.
Duck fat potatoes? Don’t even get me started.

What used to feel off-limits… now feels like an invitation.

Learning to love food again didn’t happen overnight. Even now, I sometimes hesitate with a new sauce — even when I know it’s egg-free. It’s taken years of unlearning fear, rebuilding trust, and finally giving myself permission to explore.

And now? I’m not the girl crying at the mention of Dynasty.
I’m the one asking for the tasting menu — just no egg, please.

— Noor