One of my favorite M. F. K. Fisher essays deals with the secret things we each like to eat. Her own secret thing turns out to be a rather romantic sectioned orange with warmed-up chocolate bar, but one of the few ways most folks can go her one better is when it comes to disgusting treats and nasty eats. The majority of us have some really moldy skeletons hiding in our culinary craving closets, and I am no exception.

When I was growing up, Santa had a way of putting the same goodies into our Christmas stockings each year. We were lucky enough to get different gifts each holiday, too, but three things always made an appearance: one quarter for each year you were old, one orange plumping up the toe of the stocking, and one round, cellophane-veiled package of Turkish figs. I adored these figs, and nibbled on them at bedtime all through the month of January, pretending I was spending the night in a hotel so fancy that it provided bedtime figs to its guests as a courtesy.

Figs reminded me so much of Christmas that, as a teenager and adult, I tended not to eat them throughout the rest of the year. I preferred to get my fig fix via the Christmas stocking. After Santa had moved on to a new generation, though, I determined that I could jolly well buy my own figs, thank you very much, and proceeded to do just that. I ripped open the package, breathed in that sticky aroma, and bit into one. Horrors! It was soft and gooey! I threw the entire package out after one bite.

It was not until I met my husband, who also adores figs, that my fig error was made clear to me. Michael brought figs home from the grocery store one day, and we proceeded to open the package in anticipation of sharing a few. I bit into mine, and once again -- what a remarkable coincidence! -- realized that I had been dealt a rotten fig. I made a face and Michael asked what was wrong.

"I got a bad fig," I said. "How's yours?"

"Wonderful," he replied. "Here, try a bite." I took a bite of his fig, and it tasted the same as mine had. I was just astounded that he was willingly eating rotten figs. It took him a good half hour to convince me that figs were supposed to be soft and chewy. It slowly dawned on me that Santa didn't necessarily pack the stockings moments before we dug into them. In fact, they might have been packed in bits and pieces, some things maybe even being tucked in weeks in advance. Thus I had grown up eating dried-out, leathery figs and loving them. To this day, I much prefer stale figs to fresh.

Another thing that I prefer stale is marshmallows. I probably only eat them on their own once or twice a year, but if we have them in the house, I make certain to leave the bag open so that they can more easily develop the consistency of erasers. For some reason, they taste less sickeningly sweet this way, and although they can still be tossed into a mug of hot cocoa, the staleness pretty much renders them useless for cooking purposes.

Lots of people proudly own up to some horrific sandwich combination as being their secret culinary vice. One that is near and dear to my father's heart (or tongue) is crunchy peanut butter, Miracle Whip, bologna, lettuce, and tomato on whole wheat. I have it on good authority that you must cut this sandwich in half to achieve the full spectrum of flavor subtleties ("Not only that, but it's got all four of the basic food groups," my father has pointed out to me with some pride. I think he thinks that because Miracle Whip is white, it is a dairy product). I've also heard tell of pickle and peanut butter sandwiches, and melted marshmallow and peanut butter sandwiches (I'm told by those in the know that this is commonly called a fluffernutter).

Another thing my father enjoys, mostly for the fear and loathing it used to provoke in my brother, sister, and me, is water and milk. It all started years ago when he was rinsing out a milk glass after having used it. Just to tease us, he sipped some of the milky water before throwing the rest of it down the drain. We all gasped and howled and threw ourselves on the floor and proclaimed this the most sickening sight we had ever seen. Of course, after that, he took enormous satisfaction in doing this whenever we happened to be looking.

One of the more dubious treats I've heard tell of is one enjoyed by the father of one of my oldest and dearest friends. Gary tells me that his dad used to stand at the kitchen counter munching on pickled pigs' feet and drinking buttermilk. And speaking of pigs, that brings up bacon -- in itself a delightful thing to eat -- and bacon fat-- not so delightful. Still, one of my grandmothers as a child always welcomed a piece of warm toast spread thickly with bacon fat instead of butter.

Some people have been driven to eat something most of us would gag at through no fault of their own. A college friend of mine had such a pronounced underbite that shortly after graduation, he had to go to the dentist to have his jaw broken, tiny portions of the jawbone removed, and his mouth wired shut for something like eight weeks while the whole thing healed. During this time, everything Kirk ingested had to be via a drinking straw. He told me that one night, sick to death of protein milkshakes, he threw some macaroni and cheese into the blender and then sucked it down through the straw. I get the creepy-crawlies just thinking about it.

Food habits, as we all know, can be regional. Our friend Allison, who is Maryland born and bred, was visiting us once and spied a box of Pop-Tarts in the pantry (we never usually have them around, I swear). She popped one in the toaster and when it was done, spread it lavishly with butter. Michael and I watched Allison eat with the sort of horrified fascination we usually reserve for train wrecks, but she defended herself stoutly. Many months later, we were telling this culinary horror story to my college roommate Bridgette -- also from Maryland -- and she shrugged her shoulders and said, "What's wrong with that?" She had actually heard of spreading butter on a Pop-Tart and what's more, had done it herself.

It's difficult to decide, really, whether it's more satisfying to indulge in your own nasty eats or to roll your eyes at someone else's. But butter on Pop-Tarts? Now that's disgusting.

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