Hate

Hate is a strong word, one that should not be used lightly. Real hate is not the other side of love. Real hate is not the product of fear. Real hate is not the unknown. Real hate is not bounded by time. No, real hate is as pure as the last breath you take. I don't hate much in life but I hate this: Broccoli. I'm not sure when the hate started, but I'm sure it was before the age of five, when one of my older brothers said "Hey, want something really yummy?" and when I said "Yes!" expecting candy or some such thing I was instead treated to the most foul smelling and tasting thing I could imagine. No treat. A trick. For my entire childhood, the mere smell of broccoli would make me gag. To take a bite was almost more than I could manage, my throat and stomach would start to enter convulsions. I kid you not. My hate festered in a different age. This was not exactly the age of children. All food on the plate had to be eaten. No exceptions. Don't want to eat that broccoli, eh? Well you can't have anything else either then. See you at breakfast. Thanks for coming. If my dad was at the table there was no negotiation at all. For some reason, my Mom mostly served broccoli when my Dad was at work (maybe my Dad hated it too?) giving me a bit more wiggle room. I tried feeding it to the dog under the table. All this lead too was me having to eat once dogged licked broccoli. I tried spreading the broccoli into other dishes to dilute the flavor only to ruin the flavor of all. I offered my little brother the same "treat" offered me but he was already too wise. Year after year, week after week, my mom would serve broccoli. I never got used to it. I hated it. I swore I would never, ever, never ever, eat it when I grew up. And I haven't. Not once. As an adult, in the absence of brocolii, I was less aware of my hate. It would rise up from time to time. Such as the time I tried a veggie burrito which was really a broccoli burrito. Blasphemy. Now the mere smell of broccoli doesn't cause me to puke. I can almost tolerate it. I've stopped asking waiters if side of vegetables contained broccoli. When some of the broccoli bits spilled onto my mash potatoes or pork chop, I now longer refuse to take a bite, I simply brush off the bits. I like to think I have matured. But make not mistake, I still hate it. Recently, I spent the night at my parents. My mom made dinner and was sure to cook my favorites. And yes, she did make broccoli. As she got ready to scoop some onto my plate, I said "I think I'll pass" and she didn't blink an eye. How nice to be old.