Don’t Ever Feed Me Broccoli
I’m a supertaster. Many of the vegetables in the cruciferous family make me shudder – they are bitter and sulfurous to me. So I loathe broccoli. (The texture doesn’t help.) I can tolerate very thinly-sliced cauliflower if it’s laden with butter and cheese. Kale is right out, except for kale chips which are seasoned beyond recognition. Collards, too. Brussels sprouts are banned from my table, and I can only go near cabbage if there is bacon, tomato sauce or mayonnaise along for the ride.
But broccoli is the worst. No one has ever been able to sell me on it – I want to like it, because liking it would make things smoother around the house. I’m very motivated to like it. I just can’t, no matter how much willpower I invest.
So a reasonable person wouldn’t bother to try to get me to eat broccoli – it’s a waste of time and energy. Even my parents learned this. It has always been thus; it will ever be thus.
And this is a good metaphor for a lot of things. One that I will return to, but in the meantime, I’m throwing it out there for others to use as well.