It's a time-honored standoff between mother and child, and Mom and I were no different.
The problem: broccoli. Specifically, this most-hated of 'occolis was the one vegetable that my dog, Missy, refused to eat under the table. Even under plausible threat of starvation.I would sit there alone, staring at the cold green slop on my plate. It's important to note that this was never a palatable warm sprig. My mom's idea of preparing broccoli was to boil it until you could twirl it on your fork like pasta, then serve it stone cold. Before you judge me, try this. Absolutely vile. Not to mention she cooked the nutrients right out of it, so this was purely an exercise in cruelty.The stakes: my having to eat broccoli.
The players: Mom and me. Certainly not that traitorous bitch Missy.
The setting: the kitchen table, about three hours after everyone has finished dinner and departed.
Mom and I both knew that soon, the irresistible force of broccoli would clash with the immovable object of bedtime. My plan, as ever, was to make her choose one. As bedtime neared, she would begin negotiations. "Just eat half of it."
"Surely you jest."
Half became three bites, which would be slathered in cheese or fudge or whatever it took for Mom to claim partial victory. But I knew Mom's partial victory by another name: John's partial defeat. As bedtime hour neared, I dug in my heels.
I knew she was caving when she started talking about the kids starving in Africa. Just hold on, John. You're almost there. As soon as she starts extolling the healthy virtues of br—
"You know, you can't not eat vegetables. You're gonna die. It's the healthiest food in the world."
Booyah!
"Yeah, well, someday it'll be available in a pill. I'll take that instead."
"It will not."
"Will too."
As usual, Mom's argument has been tossed into history's ashbin.
And hell no, I don't take the pills.