I hate the sound of crunching. HATE it. Loathe it, in fact, which I’m pretty sure is one above ‘hate’ on the hatred scale. I loathe the sound of crunching even more than I loathe oranges with peel so tight you can only pick it off in tiny bits at a time. THAT much.
Most of the time, when my wife is eating something crunchy (which I’m sure she does just to annoy me), I have to either leave the room or put earphones in and listen to something, anything, as long as it takes away the sound. It’s a thing I have, I guess. It even has a name: Misophonia. I am misophonic. (Not misogynistic, as some would have you believe.)
My eldest son does this weird thing when he bangs his teeth together as he eat. My younger son doesn’t crunch, but makes so much mess I can barely stand the thought of food being anywhere within arm’s reach. Basically, when it comes to crunching – or any eating-related sounds, for that matter – I can be a right stroppy arse.
Except for when Jemima eats. When Jemima eats I could listen to it all day long.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that she’s only 18 months old, and therefore doesn’t really have enough teeth to warrant a decent crunch, or because she has me well and truly wrapped around her finger, but I love the sound of her eating. Sometimes, when she’s eating a biscuit, I’ll put my face right next to hers and watch as she grips it in both hands and takes a tiny bite before smooshing her little moist lips together and crunching all sweetly.
I’m dreading the day that she starts annoying me when she eats. Until then, I’m going to continue to annoy her by putting my ear so close to her mouth when she munches on something that I run the risk of having a chunk bitten out of it, Holyfield-style.