Like a good number of children, I have been forced to eat overcooked, disgusting spinach. My mother drowned it in butter and I was served the limp greens in a bowl, steaming hot. I was given a fork and commanded “Eat it. Do not get up from this table until you have completed it.”

Like most kids, my reaction was to play with it for two hours, verging on tears, and thinking furiously about how horrible my situation was. I was hungry and I had to pee, and after uneasily sliding one of the slimy leaves into my mouth, I was feeling a little ill as well. The flavor was sub-par, to say the least. Appalling would probably be one of the correct words for it.

My mother persisted, and I considered passing out on the floor–from fury, disgust, and mortification.

Eventually, my parents both gave in, and I managed to escape to the bathroom, where I did not throw up the hideous stuff I had ingested, and then the rest of the evening was a blur.

A few weeks later, when staying at my godfamily’s house, I saw some people dallying about the kitchen making a salad.

I asked my mother and godmother and godfather if there were any of those little rounded green leaves, and said they were my favorite, and really tasty.

My mother did what I now know to be called “face-palm” and sighed loudly.

“That’s spinach, sweetie.”

Then she rolled her eyes, and focused very firmly on me.

“You said that you hated it.”

At this point, my godparents were snickering.

“Only cooked,” I concluded, and once again my memory dissolves into a blur.

I suppose the story of spinach and me ended successfully after all.


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