Just for fun: What food did you cry over as a kid?

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  1. Billie Kelpin profile image85
    Billie Kelpinposted 5 years ago

    Just for fun:  What food did you cry over as a kid?

    I was showing my husband a picture of my kindergarten class and hold him how Francie and I used to cry in the lunchroom over chocolate pudding that the nuns wanted to make us eat.  He told me how he hated, school hot lunch Jell-O, of all things.  Francie and I won out because we just sat in the lunchroom until Sister Mary Michael started class again. What's your kid-food story?


  2. duffsmom profile image61
    duffsmomposted 5 years ago

    No tears and I was a teenager. I went to live with my aunt and uncle when I was 15 and I had a very picky appetite. They served lima beans (GACK!) and all they asked was that I eat one lima bean. I sat for a long time and finally hid it in my milk.

    I still hate lima beans!!

    1. Billie Kelpin profile image85
      Billie Kelpinposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      Cute.  Lima beans have that same "back of the tongue" taste for me as liver does.  UGH!

    2. Georgie Lowery profile image93
      Georgie Loweryposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      My grandmother hated brussel's sprouts, but she would always put one on her plate and eat it. She said she had to set a good example for her grandkids.

    3. Billie Kelpin profile image85
      Billie Kelpinposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      George, ah, the epitome of self-sacrifice for your children and grandchildren!  Sweet!  I'm beginning to think all of these food stories are metaphors for life smile

  3. Lisa HW profile image65
    Lisa HWposted 5 years ago

    The first part of my reply is going to come across as a "I walked miles in the snow to school" kind of story, but the first schools I attended were no-frills, old fashioned, public schools that had no lunch room (or library or gym or anything else that wasn't a classroom, giant hall, or office.  So my mother packed my lunch, and I bought each day's snack in the hall for a nickle.  At home, nobody ever tried to make me eat anything.  So, I don't have one of those "made-me-eat" stories.

    There was ONE food that I pretty much DID cry over almost every Sunday for the first, maybe, six years of my life - ice cream.  That was because our parents would take us for the classic Sunday drive the included going for ice cream cones.  I couldn't eat the ice cream fast enough, so I'd pretty much always end up crying when it melted and hit the dirt.  Then my mother would always say how I had to eat it faster so that wouldn't happen (as if I didn't know that already, but there was no way I could eat the ice cream fast enough. 

    I didn't even care so much about losing the ice cream.  I just hated whatever sticky mess was involved in the whole process, but I also felt bad to see such a perfectly nice ice cream cone almost immediately end up the way they inevitably did on a regular basis.

    Anyway, somewhere along the way we started going to where a person could get her ice cream in a cup, eat it at her happy leisure, and drink what had melted at the bottom of the cup.

    That was the start of a life-long habit of only getting ice cream in a cup or dish (and I never even liked either type of waffle cone anyway).

    Permanently scarred from all that early ice-cream trauma, I suppose; to this day, I do everything I can to avoid having to get involve with scooping ice cream out of a half-gallon container.  While I don't cry if I have to deal with the ice cream mess, I do definitely feel a very mean "inner mood" settling in.

    Anyway, that's the best story I could come up with.   smile

    And the moral to that story is:   Parents:   If you have a little kid who can't eat an ice cream cone fast enough to keep the ice cream from falling off don't wait six years before you figure out that your little kid can't wolf down a big, giant, blob of ice cream perched precariously on top of a brittle cone and/or that your little kid's hands are small; and a big, heavy, ice cream cone is at extremely high risk of tipping over and ending up on the ground.  (lol)

    1. Billie Kelpin profile image85
      Billie Kelpinposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      Adorable!  and with good advice. Thanks for sharing, Lisa.

  4. Billie Kelpin profile image85
    Billie Kelpinposted 5 years ago

    OOOPS, I should have edited this question before posting. In a Charlie-Sheen voice, hear me say, "EMBARRASSED!"  Can't see to edit at this late stage after posting it.

  5. JayeWisdom profile image90
    JayeWisdomposted 5 years ago

    One of my earliest memories as a young child is of hating the taste of milk to the extent that one sip made me nauseated. (As an adult, I learned that I was lactose intolerant.) Back then, milk was considered the ultimate "healthy" food, and kids were supposed to drink it for meals.

    The last time I was forced by my father to try and drink a bit of milk was when I was seven years old. That first taste made me gag, and I immediately threw up my breakfast all over the kitchen table. Since I was sitting next to him, he got thorougly splashed.  I was never required to drink milk again!

    1. Billie Kelpin profile image85
      Billie Kelpinposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      me TOO!  Exact same thing happened re: realization that I was lactose intolerant.  We went to Mass every morning in grade school and brought our lunches. The nuns provided milk for us. By 10 o'clock I was sick to my stomach. I should have splashed !!

  6. calmclinic profile image64
    calmclinicposted 5 years ago

    Peanut butter smile ... I remember I had a cousin who loves to tease me and bully me and because she knows I love peanut butter, she would ask her mom to buy her a whole jar and just eat it from the jar all the while making me watch... and I would go home and cry and ask my mom why wasn't I allowed to eat peanut butter from the jar as she did.

    1. Billie Kelpin profile image85
      Billie Kelpinposted 5 years agoin reply to this

      Oh my goodness, I can't imagine such meanness.  I have a cousin, not  that overt, who to this day, at our late stage of life, seems to like my position of having less than she does.  So in a way, they did us a favor by letting us know how NOT to be :


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