Growing up as a child of immigrant parents can sometimes be a challange for kids, especially when that title makes you the subject of jokes, insults or snickering.

Missprouncing 'vegetables', "vehgeh-taybles", was one lesson learned, that my bff from elementary school still credits herself for - "I taught you how to speak english", she will say. It had been the way I had heard my mom say it, so as a child, I obviously assumed it was correct. Then there was the situation with the jean jacket with the pink polka-dotted bow on the back and sunglasses pins on the front, that I thought rocked to no end, until I was informed otherwise, and never wore it again. And as far as clothes go, I guess I picked up a few fashion faux-pas when I went to live abroad for a year, returning in white skinny jeans, which again I assumed were the coolest thing since sliced bread, until I learned that I would need to make an emergency shopping trip after school to pick up new jeans.

All these 'foreigner mistakes' aside, there was one thing I never gave up, never 'corrected' myself on, never gave in to. That thing was my food. In 2nd grade, my mom would make me Nutella sandwiches, which I absolutely loved, and continued to love, inspite of comments like 'are you eating polish poo again?'. In college, I would list polish pickles as my favorite food, to the dismay of my friends, who could never tell the difference between mine and store bought ones, or understand my fondness for them. Even at work, my co-workers have commented on my herrings in sauce as unusual. Through it all, I have remained true to my favorite foods in the world, and let snide comments slide, telling myself that it didn't matter if they didn't like my food, because I knew they were missing out.