Certain foods inspire an illogical revulsion in me. I find mushrooms, for instance, impossible to separate from the fact that they grow upon decomposing matter. Their very texture conjures up images of rotting meat and dead, wet, brown leaves. For my boyfriend, it’s the sight of bone or cartilage; he can’t stand any sign that the meat he is eating was ever part of a dead animal. Raisins are also a deal breaker in his world. I love raisins, but I can imagine that anti-raisin feelings might be related to their cursory resemblance to rodent droppings, or his aversion to all things dried out. I have a fear of undercooked pork and chicken that is so intense that the mere thought of eating it makes my stomach hurt. I have been faced with social situations in which I have been served pink turkey and basically raw pork, and have had to swallow bits of both. While I did not immediately sicken and die as I feared, my stomach cramped before I had even taken a bite and made the whole experience akin to running a gauntlet. Yet, paradoxically, I welcome bloody beefsteaks and pink in the middle burgers. While canned food frightens me because it has been marinating in its metal casket for months, even years, and tastes like iron to me even after it’s re-cooked. Then there is the creeping realization that any number of ingredients in our food may be tainted with toxic chemicals or fecal bacteria. Buying local or organic ingredients would seem the safe alternative, except for the fact that the cost is generally prohibitive. And there is the sad reality that a certain amount of rat fecal matter is allowed in our food no matter what. Food fears are...