Age five—
Quiet girl, sitting patiently at the table.
The waiter approaches, introduces, and asks,
“What can I interest you in today?”
Mom orders: buttered noodles it is.
Something so bland, so flavorless.

Age ten— 
Slightly more outspoken, less silent indeed.
Dad is stirring in the kitchen, flipping through cookbooks and creating a mess.
Gourmet burgers with spices aplenty,
“No way was I eating that.”
Sorry, dad but you’ll have to make something more.

Age fifteen—
Entering high school, new friends, new classes, new teachers.
“Should I try a new variety of flavors?”
My taste buds continue to expand, but not extensively.
Spaghetti and meatballs, tacos, and pizza.
Pristine likings increase and my pickiness mellows.

Age twenty—
One year into college, the poor life for me,
I’d have to get use to eating whatever is convenient and cheap.
It would be a struggle, to not be stubborn about what I eat,
My conscience thinks: “You have to be less selective.”
In reality it will be difficult, but it’s what’s best for me.