I hate eggplant. I don’t actually know what it tastes like, but I hate it.
One year in Elementary School my mother signed me up for the summer garden program. We all showed up a few times a week and worked in the vegetable garden one of the teachers had started in the school courtyard. I know this would seem like a really good program for inner city kids, but lots of my classmates lived on farms. So, I really don’t know what the purpose of the program was. But still, I would go and plant and water and weed. Occasionally there were little lessons on lifting plants by the leaves and photosynthesis, but really we just played in the dirt.
The end of the summer came around, and our garden bloomed. We all got to pick out of the hat to choose what plant we would get to take home. I wanted the watermelon more than anything. More than a damn puppy I wanted that watermelon. Or at least a strawberry, or tomato, you know something really cool. But when I pulled my slip out of the hat I got an eggplant.
I was devastated. It was an old people vegetable! It was lame! That theory was only confirmed when my parents were super excited about the stupid purple thing I brought home. My father cooked it and they sat around talking about how good it was and how we should eat the devil’s food more often. I refused to eat the eggplant. That plant that in no way looked like an egg. And to this day I still refuse to eat it. I will chose iceberg lettuce over eggplant parm any day. I don’t care how little nutritional content iceberg has. Eggplant destroyed my childhood dreams, and that is a slight that cannot be forgiven.