I was reading Pica's Dear John letter to the butternut squash, and I started thinking about my own food history.
As a child, I was beyond picky. I wouldn't eat cheese, mustard made me feel queasy, and I actually threw up when I accidentally ingested a pickle. And don't get me started on vegetables. The only veggie I would eat without a fight was the potato, and then only if it was in french fried form. When forced to eat peas, I would swallow them whole as quickly as I could, lest I accidentally catch a taste of the veggie. I cried when my mother put carrots on my plate. I wouldn't even taste corn. I think I went a whole year of my life (possibly longer) where the only thing I would eat was Cheerios and ham on white bread.
When I moved out of my parents house and started doing my own cooking, I suddenly realized that the reason I hated vegetables was because my mother is the worst cook in the history of the world. (Seriously - we ate boiled chicken in our house. Boiled. chicken.)
So I could never write a dear John letter like Pica. All of my letters to food would be passionate love letters. Dear Pineapple - I weep copious tears when I think of all the years I refused to taste your succulent sweetness. Dear green pepper, I ignored you for long, but finally my eyes have opened and I see your natural beauty.
But I will never eat a lima bean. Cause they are just gross.