There has been great discussion around our house today about what’s commonly called “exposure therapy”.

The basic concept is as follows: find something that is semi-scary to you, (i.e. trying a new food). Assuming that the food in question is not something you are allergic to, slowly begin to introduce it into your personal sphere.

Think about it.

Smell it.

Look at it.

Taste a little bit of it.

Eventually have a reasonably sized portion of it and consider if you like it or not.

The topic of duck, as a food item, came into play this morning. “I think I’m going to make myself like duck.” says our littlest person. All eyebrows in the room that are not hers raise in suspicion.

“I mean, I did that with sushi, and now I can’t get enough of it!” Thus happy with her new culinary mission, she begins to discuss it further with Chef. “You enjoyed the Duck ramen I made-maybe try some roasted duck breast next time?” he says, and she replies with “Well yeah-its ramen after all and its great. I think I’ll give the actual meat a chance.”

Which makes both Chef and I happy because we definitely like to serve everyone at the table the same thing as much as we are able. Long gone are the days when we had to make a complete smorgasbord of dishes to satisfy our three food critics: the tiny one who only liked ranch dressing and ketchup and fries; make sure a potato alternative was readily available for the adopted child who as a baby was left at an orphanage overseas where the main fare was potatoes; and figuring out gluten free vegetarian recipes for our food-sensitive eldest.

Mostly these days it’s Him and I eating a wonderful rotation of predictable and lovely dinners by ourselves, with the littlest eating with us fifty percent of the time due to our parenting schedule. (Our guy eats out mostly, being the popular friend at school, and is perpetually ‘going out’.) The eldest has moved on to their own kitchen and can make whatever they and the partner desire.

So the concept of having roast duck was intriguing.

This kind of ‘hey let’s try something new’ has also flowed into scary stuff for me-not food related necessarily, but as it relates to tunnels.

For years, I have suffered crippling anxiety when going through a parking garage, underground caves, or very large unsupported basement areas. The reason for this, I really have no idea. Be that as it may, I just don’t like going through tunnels of any kind. The noises overhead make my brain go on high alert, and I feel as if the world is closing in.

I discovered this particular phobia of mine when we were on the way to my husband’s aunt and uncle’s fiftieth anniversary party. What started as a “let’s crash the party!” turned into a family extravaganza the likes of which will not be seen for a good long while. The actual event was amazing-lots of great family stories were told, many fun sightseeing adventures in downtown Philly, amazing art, wonderful food, and a loooooong drive back and forth from home in Chicago to Philadelphia and back.

Through a tunnel.

Which went through a mountain. (I’m told it was a super big hill, but to my prairie state ass, it was a mountain.)

As I saw it approaching in the not too far off distance, my husband began to say “WOO-HOO! THE TUNNEL! We loved this as kids.” while pumping one first in the air. Our wee traveling companions (at the time, ages 5 and 9) in the backseat began to howl with excitement.

As we got closer and closer, my stomach began curling up. It was a big tunnel. It was a long tunnel. I had no Xanax with me. Hell, I didn’t even have a flask on my hip. But there we went.

As I listened to his story of how every time his family made the pilgrimage to Philly to see family, my fingers curled around Chef’s big hand, cutting off his blood flow until he looked over at me for a second and realized my eyes were closed and I was absolutely stuck in a crouched sitting position.

“Honey, are you ok? What is it??” he asked. “Don’t like it don’t like it don’t like it” came my mumbling response.

Of course he started to try and calm me down and we made it through that giant rock unscathed.

Afterwards, we talked about it at great length, and I felt much better on the ride home, now that I knew what to expect and Chef had an idea that I needed some warning and reassurance about such things.

All this to say, we had occasion to go through lower Wacker drive recently. If you’ve never been on lower Wacker, it is a twisty and turny underground street of epic legend. Look it up sometime, and you’ll find that it has earned the reputation it currently has. It’s dark, it’s underground, and it goes on endlessly, offering only slight glimpses of sunlight now and then.

This time going through the darkness underground, I just looked at Chef, held his hand, and closed my eyes as he turned up the radio a bit for me to have a good focal point. I like how we go through the scary things now. Hand in hand, encouraging each other along the way.

And for the record, the Duck was excellent too.