When I was little, my grandpa liked to say, (please excuse my paraphrasing) that it’s a shame that by the time you’re old enough to buy as much ice cream as you want, you can’t eat it all. Now, it’s possible that he meant something a bit more expansive than that statement’s literal interpretation, but odds are, despite my grandpa’s generally serious disposition, he meant exactly what he said. The man loves his ice cream.
When my mom was a little girl, her dad would threaten to put any vegetables she didn’t finish eating at dinner under her pillow (broccoli usually played a starring role in this story), to be eaten, mushy and cold, the next day for breakfast. Now, I’m not sure if it ever actually came to that (gosh, I hope not), but I’d hazard to say that this scare tactic did little to encourage her interest in green vegetables. Nowadays, my mom is a grown woman (one would hope – right?) with children of her own, and despite that early roadblock eats her vegetables with relish, but I’d wager that she missed out on a few years of cruciferous-veggie-munching largely due to that early trauma.