The Engineer says I'm picky because I don't like rare pork.
I don't like rare pork or beer, he doesn't like chicken or fruit. Which, of course, means I'm the picky one since it's entirely reasonable to not like chicken or fruit and insane to not like beer or rare pork. (As a Latvian, it's beyond his comprehension that life could exist without beer. He shudders at the very thought.)
I made Runge pickles, which he loves, out of my overgrown Armenian cucumbers, but he won't eat them unless I dry them off with paper towels first.
And he calls me picky.