I have been told by not unreliable authorities that there was a time early in my life when I loved fruits and vegetables. At some undefined point between then and my first coherent memories, my love affair turned bad. I grew to loathe virtually all of them. If it was grown, I likely hated it.
And get this: for a few months back in my early 20s, I declared myself a vegetarian. How was this possible without eating fruits and vegetables? Garlic bread. Lots and lots of garlic bread. Also popcorn. Cheese pizza was a definite favorite.
One day I had a sudden attack and nauseated myself with two Quarter Pounders with Cheese. So much for that particular dietary experiment.
Fast-forward a decade. What I could and could not tolerate mellowed and with each item I forced myself to taste, a seed was planted (no pun intended, but hey) — slowly I came to accept that I was putting myself on a new path. One lined with greenery.
More time passed, years filled with a bout of hyperthyroidism, quitting smoking, other health struggles. Life. In the middle of it all, I found myself re-engaged in two great passions: cycling and cooking. Not really new activities per se, but abandoned in childhood, then regained.
I came out the other side of the illness changed and wanting to poke at those things that I avoided for no reason, behavior that I took for granted: like hating fruit and vegetables.