My year of pork and broccoli

My dad and I were housemates for a year or so, making our way with all things domestic as the odd pair. After my mom died we both learned to pick up the slack in running the household that my mom once managed with ease. I did the laundry, he did the cooking. The barbecue grill and pressure cooker were used nightly - in rain, snow and sleet. Pork was the meat of choice and broccoli, only broccoli, the sole vegetable.

As a child I detested broccoli. The texture, the smell, the mere look of it. I remember my Grandmother coaxing me to eat them by calling them 'trees.' I wouldn't eat a tree, so why in God's name would I eat broccoli?

As a young teenager, my low opinion of 'trees' remained intact. As Dad's pressure cooker began to shriek, the foul smell permeated our house, lingering for hours like an unwanted visitor. The smell of broccoli repulsed me. I'm sure I had nightmares about receiving a gift of 'eau de broccoli' perfume, of being suffocated ever so slowly by a hankerchief laced with broccoli odor, etc.

What's for dinner? Pork and broccoli? What's on for tomorrow night? Broccoli and pork. And this weekend? Guess. My dad, ever the creature of habit, served this nightly.

I couldn't eat pork again until my 20s and only recently reversed my ruling on broccoli (though I'm still not sure I've reached a firm decision).