Not really, I had to eat overcooked liver as a child. The trauma is deep and I nearly once lost an eye to a twang of gristly sinew (what the fuck is that shit, I got even odds on some kind of sclerotic artery or deeply entrenched parasite with attitude?). Our kitchen had David Cronenberg as executive chef. Think less Michelin star more Michelin tyre. The one from Duel.
Of course, back then if you didn't eat your dinner, you got it for breakfast. And if you declined breakfast, it would be served for lunch. And then in the evening, it would be there: waiting. It would follow you with the enthusiasm of a demonic clown with a sharp chef's knife and a taste for your eternal soul, preferably julienned (admittedly, that's another story from my childhood). My mother couldn't cook but she didn't actually know she couldn't cook. Stop when it's black and there's a fire engine outside. It was her way or starvation. I watched Live Aid with some kind of perversely misplaced envy.
Parental indulgence of their children seems a modern thing. I don't know a single child who doesn't have advanced dining needs. Poppy can only eat cake. Of course, Poppy is a demon, and she gets cake when she wants it. Other kids get it anyway. Still, think on the bright side, the parental gift of climate change megadeath will probably get them before they drop dead from type 2 diabetes. Famine will get them in slimfits even if you fois gras them with chocolate cake now.
