I used to be a picky eater. As a child, I clung to my staples of macaroni and cheese, chicken fingers, and Lipton's beef rice with the same fervor I employed to cling to my mother's side. I suffered from homesickness and think that my tastes (or lack thereof) in food suffered from a similar proclivity towards the familiar, the un-exotic: I was a comfort food child.

After traveling across Europe and finding myself living in New York City, those tastes expanded. They did not change altogether,