How much hot sauce is too much hot sauce? And who gets to decide that burning issue?

Here’s the background: I am a Latina from the southwest. I was brought up eating extremely spicy food — as far back as I can remember, I poured Tabasco sauce on everything. In my family, a meal wasn’t “good” unless it was hot enough to make your nose run. My friend S. is an Anglo from the Midwest. He does not like hot food. S. fancies himself a foody, and feels that the excessive use of condiments renders one unable to appreciate the finer subtle interplays of flavor.

To each his own, right? Wrong! S. seems to feel it’s his duty in life to “teach” me the correct way to season and appreciate my food. Over the years, he has told me, “You might as well be served swill from a trough since you aren’t really appreciating the actual food.” (I’m sure S. would say that I’m not remembering things correctly, but you know, you don’t forget the times your friend uses the words “swill” and “trough” in connection with you. Incidentally, he’s also called me a “cracker.” He says he doesn’t remember that either, but he’s sure he didn’t mean it in a bad way.) He has tried to insist that, if he’s cooked the meal, he gets to decide how much hot sauce I can use, and when. (A stir-fry can have a little Tabasco, since Asian food is “meant to be spicy.” Mashed potatoes? Not allowed to use Tabasco.) He has insisted that we wait two hours to get a table at a restaurant that serves “real” Mexican food, so I can know what it’s like. Apparently “real” Mexican food can only be had at one of those oh-so-hip restaurants owned by a white-boy celebrity chef. (So, all those meals my little Mexican grandma made were apparently not “real” Mexican food.)

Now, when we go out to eat, I pretty much always pay for both of us since I am in a better financial situation. I have been a vegetarian since long before I met S., but I don’t insist that he refrain from ordering meat, even though I honestly don’t want any of my money going to support the meat industry. I know he’s a meat-eater, and if I offer to pay I understand that means he’ll order what he likes. And when I do the cooking, I don’t insist that he put hot sauce on everything just because I think it tastes best that way. So I don’t understand why he thinks my use of hot sauce has the slightest bearing on him. I mean, I could understand a little if he was complaining that, when he cooks, he has to figure out a vegetarian recipe, since that involves more work for him. But what does it matter if I put hot sauce on my food? I buy my own bottle, so it’s nothing extra for him to deal with. It’s not like he’s a professional chef or anything…and when I’m just having a quick meal with a friend, I don’t expect to be lectured about my “lowbrow” tastes.

I imagine that S. feels that he’s just trying to expose me to some of the finer points of dining, and that I’m making too big a deal out of this. My view is that, as a competent and educated adult, it’s nobody else’s business how much of anything I put on my food. I have no medical conditions that would preclude the use of hot sauce. I’m socially adept — I know not pull the Tabasco bottle out of my purse if I’m sitting at the dean’s table at an official university function. When my Dutch friends make me an authentic Dutch pancake meal, I don’t say, “Gross!” and slather it with hot sauce.

And it’s not like I need some kind of culinary Henry Higgins, either — I’ve lived and worked overseas and traveled pretty extensively, so I’ve been exposed to all kinds of different cuisines. I just happen to like my food really hot — that’s how I grew up, that’s my cultural background, and that’s what I prefer. And my dissertation research (well, back when I still had the energy to pretend I was writing one) even deals with the semiotics of food and foodways, so I have a grand historical view of the social construction of food preferences–so I’m not just lashing out out of nowhere.

Now, S. is rather dismissive of my tastes in most areas: I don’t listen to the right music or the right radio stations; I don’t watch the right shows on TV, or go to the right movies; I don’t enjoy engaging in hour-long political diatribes. So generally, I’m helping to send us all to cultural hell in pop culture handbasket. When he gets like that, I try to remember that he’s having a difficult time right now, emotionally and financially. I try to tell myself that it’s not a big deal. But it is a big deal! I keep thinking of that scene in To Kill a Mockingbird, where Atticus (or maybe it’s Calpurnia) scolds Scout for making fun of a dinner guest who is pouring syrup all over his food, because that’s what his own family does at every meal. If a fictional child can understand that it’s rude to make fun of the way someone eats — and that doing so is a culturally insensitive thing to do — then why can’t a real-life adult get it through his head? Of all the issues S. and I have, this one bothers me the most since “You eat funny! And wrong!” seems to be saying, “Hey baby, white is right when it comes to food, too.”

I don’t know…maybe S. feels that since I’m the whitest-looking Latina on the face of the earth, I don’t have the right to get all Viva La Raza about my food.

In any case, S. recently emailed me saying that he’s lonely and going through a hard time, and he’d like me to visit — but he wonders…if I do come visit, can he get me off the hot sauce? I emailed back that he’s an asshat. He seems to feel that any objection I have to being judged by him is a sign of some deep inner problem of mine, a way to avoid other issues that I might have. I say that if he’s still bringing up the issue of my Tabasco usage five whole years after the great Swill ‘N’ Trough debate, then the problem is his, not mine. However, I do concede that there’s a slight possibility that, since I teach in a field that likes to throw around words like “colonize” and “hegemony” ad nauseam, I may be blowing S.’s kindly food suggestions out of proportion.

Which is where you come in. Which is it, Sars? Is S. a marginalizing asshat? Or am I a trailer-park Eliza Doolittle, desperately in need of some culinary refinement?

Sorry for the length —

There’s a Reason I’ve Been Awarded Chili Peppers on RateMyProfessor.com

Some background: I work as a paralegal for a sole practitioner, who also employs another paralegal that deals with less confidential information than I do. My boss shares office space with two other attorneys and their paralegals (who do the same type of less-confidential work than I do). I love the work, love the clients, and love my boss, which makes this problem even stickier.

Recently, we moved our office with these other attorneys, and instead of getting my own office, which I had in our old place, I got stuck in the storeroom because, and I quote, “seniority. The others have been here longer than you.” Okay, complete bull, because I deal with highly confidential information for clients, I have two more degrees than any of the other “girls,” and I originally had an office in the old place. And, as I explained to my boss, I have difficulty focusing when I’m interrupted (like I constantly am now when the “girls” and the other attorneys barge in to check their files). My boss promised me that my office wouldn’t be a storeroom or file room, but lo and behold, it is, because the other attorneys are keeping their files back here. He also promised me a wall to separate the area that would become storage and my office, but so far, no wall, and no plans to build one.

The second half of my problem is with the girls themselves, who barge into my office when I’m working, when I’m on the phone, you name it, and just rummage through the back, talking to themselves, and I’m trying to work. (One of the “girls” also works for my boss.) If I shut my door, they walk in through the non-door entrance and make a ruckus. The other attorneys do this too. I get no office respect. The receptionist even brought her bratty daughter in, showed her around, as in “this is Jill’s office, this is Mary’s office,” and when she got to my office, she said, “and this is the storeroom.” I don’t like this woman anyway, and when she said that, I saw red and almost blurted out, “and she’s the useless lump of flesh, but you knew that, because you have to live with her.”

But today, today made me want to hurt them. The receptionist didn’t put the phones on auto-answer when she went to lunch, and lucky me, the lunchroom is right across from my office. One of the “girls” heard the phone and just barged right on in to my office, grabbed my phone, and answered it, without even acknowledging that I was sitting right there doing work.

The last thing I want to do is cause trouble. Confrontation makes me sick to my stomach, and telling my boss about this kind of disrespect worries me, because as I’ve mentioned, I haven’t been here as long as the women in question (and the receptionist is one of the other attorneys’ sister). But I do need to get a backbone, I realize that. So how do I first, get my boss to realize that I need a wall because I hate coming in here and not having an office when I had one in our old place and I can’t focus and feel like crap working in a storeroom, then get some respect from the girls, and finally, get the receptionist to stop referring to my office as “the storeroom”? (She’s done it more than once since then. “Oh, she works in the storeroom.”) What did I bother going to school for, if I’m getting treated like the lowest on the totem pole?

Signed,
Initech is lookin’ mighty fine right about now

My problem is basically with my roommate’s
ex-boyfriend. I’m afraid this will take some
background information, but I’ll try to be as brief as
possible (and looking back over this, it looks like I
failed. Miserably. I apologize).

I have two roommates, whom I’ll call Bill and Jane.
We’ve known each other since we all went to an
extremely conservative Christian college. Jane and I
didn’t really become friends until we had both escaped
crappy conservative town in which conservative
Christian college was established, but we were in the
same circle of friends. I was much better friends
with Bill, and Bill and Jane were (and are) very close
as well.

The same circle of friends included Bill’s on-again
off-again boyfriend, whom I’ll call John, and John’s
roommate and friend, whom I’ll call Larry. We all
used to hang out together, and had a lot of fun, until
one night I had too much to drink and Larry sort of
circled me off from the herd, took me to his place,
and date-raped me. I was really fucked up about this
for a long time (and I still am, I think), and I
didn’t adjust very well (I’m leaving out a very long
and embarrassing part in which I proceeded to sleep
with a lot of guys I hardly knew, cut myself — which I
still can’t believe I did, and of which I am still
incredibly ashamed — and generally did that whole awful
and ultimately silly downward spiral).

I told my
friends, Bill, Jane, John, et cetera, and they were sort of
supportive of my situation, but distanced themselves.
I probably shouldn’t have told them at all, and I
realize now that telling them sort of drew a line in
the sand: I was not going to be in the same room as
Larry, so I guess they sort of had to choose with whom
to be friends. Well, they chose Larry, which fucked
me up even further, to say the least. Apparently,
they thought my behavior was slutty, so they could see
why Larry…did what he did, I guess. Or they thought
I was a giant slut, and, on top of that, a liar, too.

Anyway. I finally got my shit together. I think I’m
mostly okay now. We just don’t talk about it anymore.
My major problem had been with John. He flat-out
refused to believe me, after hearing Larry’s version
of events, and so basically cut me off from my friends
(who then had to choose between me on one side, and
Larry and John on the other).

It’s been years since this happened, and I still get
on very well with Bill and Jane after a long period of
awkwardness (and I’m still a little cautious around
them, as we’ve never resolved the issue, and I have no
idea whether or not they believe me or think I’m a
lying slut), but now John has moved to the same city
in which we live and comes around to our apartment all
the time, and I am suddenly just incredibly pissed off
by the sight of him. I hate him now, and I don’t
really know why I’m just now having this strong
emotional response. He doesn’t even talk to Larry
anymore, and he’s been friendly with me, but every
time I see him I just remember him coming to talk with
me while I was crying and explaining that he liked me
but didn’t believe me and valued Larry more as a
friend. I can sort of understand his point of view.
I don’t think I was much fun to be around after it
happened, and I didn’t really behave like a classic
rape victim, what with all the sleeping around, and I
for some reason showed my friends where I cut myself
(and I STILL cringe when I remember doing it…just,
WHY?! Did I think it would convince them that I wasn’t
lying? I wasn’t! Did I think it would prove that I
was in pain? Jesus. What the hell was I thinking?
Still horribly ashamed). So, I can see why he treated
me the way he did.

It’s just that now I don’t WANT to see why he did it.
I just don’t give a fuck about him at all. I want to
hate him for the way he made me feel. So, my
questions:

Am I crazy for just now getting angry about this? Do
I even have a right to feel angry at all? Did I act
like an insane child after this bad experience? If I
freeze John out, do you think it will have ill effects
on my friendship with Bill and Jane? Should I talk to
Bill and Jane about my reservations regarding both our
friendship and John’s continual presence at our
apartment, even if doing so will result in strained
roommate relations for the remainder of our lease?

I just feel like I should have totally gotten over
this by now, and a little like I’m cracking up. Any
advice, or kick in the ass, would be welcomed.

Signed,
At Least I Now Get To Thank You Personally For Season
Three Dawson’s Creek Recaps, Which Were The Best Quick
Fix For Depression EVER

Ah, a boyfriend’s parents problem. Here goes.

Boy and I got together over two years ago, when I was a freshman in
college and he was a sophomore — since then, he has met my parents and
most of my family, and now that he’s getting ready to graduate, we’re
starting to plan our future together.

I knew when we met that his parents were bitter ex-Catholics, and that
this had made him a little gun-shy of my own serious Catholic beliefs.
The first year we were together, I took him to Mass once just so he
could see how I spend my Sundays, and out of the blue a year later he
told me he wanted to consider converting.

This did not go over so well at home — lots of negative comments were
made. I, naturally, did not take this well, and he made the mistake of
telling them they were damaging their relationship with me as well as
with him with their behavior. (I’d met them only once around the time
he decided to convert.)

All of this mess is the background to the other problem. His parents
recently met mine, and they noticed his comfort level with my family,
and I think they want to do the same for me. They are polite and kind
to me even as their Catholicism drama drives me crazy, so I am very
prepared to get to know them better, especially since I want to marry
their son.

They’ve invited me to family Thanksgiving twice since we got
together — I declined, since I need to see my grandfather who is in his
mid-eighties, and only visits at that time. (Also, the first time they
asked, I hadn’t met them yet and didn’t want to do it over Turkey
Day.)

It came out while he was home over break that his Mom reads this as a
sign I am uncomfortable with them and dislike her, and she wants to
know what it will take to make me comfortable. (I presume this relates
to the Catholic drama, since I tried to act comfortable when I saw
them over break.) We were both a little annoyed by this, since it
doesn’t seem so weird for me to spend that holiday with my own family
for those reasons, and misreading my motives.

There’s another reason I have turned down their vacation invites — I
have mild cerebral palsy, which makes me walk very slowly, and their
vacations involve a lot of physical activity. They also have a hard
time dealing with this — his dad won’t accept why I don’t drive, mom is
clearly out of her depth when I try to talk to her about it, et cetera.

So when they recently invited me on their Hawaii vacation this summer,
I was a little edgy. Boy’s description of their usual itinerary makes
me think I wouldn’t have much fun, or would be forced to spend time
just with him rather than the whole family when they went off to go
climbing or whatever. Also, it’s a ten-day vacation, and I feel a
little uncomfortable being with them that long, though that’s a
secondary thing.

My mom suggested relaying to them via Boy that I very much appreciate
their offer, but I’d prefer to visit them at home, where I’ll be more
physically comfortable and it will be easier for me to have fun with
them.

I’m not sure I agree, while I do feel that they are so eager to get
to know me, they are forgetting (or just not used to thinking) how
they can channel that desire into something fun for all concerned.

I’d like to let his mom know over the phone why I have reservations
about Hawaii, and gently suggest what I would prefer to do, since I
feel it is unfair and awkward to ask them to have a totally different
vacation just for me.

So, three questions. Does that option seem better than going through
Boy? Should I just mention my discomfort with Hawaii and not hint I’d
prefer to visit them at home instead? What should I do if she tells
me not to worry about the awkwardness, she’ll fix everything?

Sign me,
Tolstoy was right about families…

I’d be interested to know your opinion on the “email” vs. “e-mail” debate. I noticed from searching your archives that you tend to use “email,” as do most of the readers who write to The Vine. However, I also did a search of the NYT and the Washington Post, and they seem to prefer “e-mail.” I feel like “email” is fine for casual writing and correspondence, but “e-” compound noun abbreviations should have a hyphen in anything that’s published. Thoughts?

Best,
Vickie