I didn’t grow up loving vegetables.
In fact, my brother and I spent a considerable chunk of our childhoods scheming how to get rid of the vegetables on our dinner plates without our parents noticing.
Peas-and-carrots were chewed up and balled into napkins.
Lima beans were shuttled into the waste basket in the nearby bathroom.
Broccoli was dropped onto the floor and conveniently camouflaged by the groovy green shag rug under our table. Later, we’d return to the scene of the crime and dispose of any incriminating evidence.
It wasn’t that my mother was a bad cook. In fact, she’s a fabulous cook.
However, this was back in the old days — before you could buy out-of-season produce shipped up from South America or grown in greenhouses.