Finally, after what seemed like hours (but was likely only minutes), I counted the peas left on my plate. 27. I couldn't do it anymore. It was torture. And I had had enough.
So I did what any bright, sweet cutie would do at the age of 4 (ish). I formed the peas into the number 27 on my plate, and carted it in to my mom as she was curling her hair in the washroom. I looked up at her with the plate on display in my hands and said "mom, I only have 27 peas left. Do I have to eat those?"
She, of course, couldn't keep a straight face and let me off the hook. This time.
Fast forward 6 years or so. We are no longer living in that basement apartment, mom has moved on to better jobs, Jules is about 8, and I'm about 10. And I still really. don't. like. vegetables. Don't get me wrong......I like corn, carrots, beets, and potatoes. I am a Newfoundlander, after all. But the rest of the veg? Blech.
Now I will tell you about the time mom had an old friend over for Sunday dinner and put broccoli on my plate. Despite my protests, she yelled at me to "eat it!" while I sat there teary-eyed loathing her. And that stupid little tree on my plate.
So I put the broccoli in my mouth, and promptly started to gag. Yes, gag.
I seriously thought I was going to blow chunks all over the table.
In horror, my mother yells at me again, but this time telling me to "get away from the table and don't come back!"