I recall once being confronted by cold eggplant on my plate at the end of the meal when very young. I didn’t like the looks of it and had postponed eating it until last. But my mother had a firm rule that I had to finish everything on my plate before I could have dessert or be excused.
Never had eggplant before. One taste convinced me that I never wanted to have it again, but mother would not bend. I had to finish every last bit. She admonished me to think about all the starving children in the world who would beg to eat my eggplant if they could. I knew enough not to tell her to mail it to them.
My second bite tasted so awful it made me shiver although I managed to swallow it. Most of my malodorous task still lay before me. I simply could not conceive of placing a third bite of this slimey, cold, clammy, mess into my mouth and I began trying to stall for time.
Gave a piece of it to the dog, Hiho quickly spit it out and walked away. I am in trouble. After over an hour, I had finished. Mother never served eggplant again.
Last year, I grew eggplant and had it again. It is still to me like eating an old, purple sponge. Why would someone want to do that? Why would I want to do that? Sure, you can fry it up and slap some sauce on, but at the end of the day, it’s still just an old, purple sponge. The same things go for turnips and rutabagas. #Gardening.