I love garlic. I grew up with it practically as a staple. My husband on the other hand grew up in household where black pepper was an exotic spice that was only used on special occasions.
When we first married, he told me that he didn’t like garlic. He still sort of confesses to that, even though he knows that he gets garlic in something or other at least once or twice a week and enjoys the dishes.
My sons are the same way. They profess to not like garlic, but they gobble it up anyway. My daughter would ask for spoonfuls of minced garlic to eat before she could walk.
Last night, I made our usual turkey meat loaf for dinner. This time, however, I snuck in a whole clove or fresh organic garlic that we got from our local farm. I braced myself. I was getting bored with plain meat loaf, even our Thanksgiving recipe, so I wanted to spice it up a bit. I could smell the garlic permeating the kitchen as dinner bakes and was sure that no one would try it.
I stayed silent and let everyone take a couple of bites, then I announced that I did the meat loaf a little differently this time. I challenged them to come up with the how. No one did, although they all said that it was better and tastier. My husband described it as lighter.
I confessed about the garlic and everyone was surprised. My daughter claimed that she didn’t like garlic. I reminded her about how she would eat it by the spoonful. This reminded her of a story we like to tell in the family: “Remember how I would put the dust out of the vacuum and eat it?”
Okay, so even though I thought I might be raising a foodie, maybe she didn’t have the most discriminating palate back then. But at least I got the garlic in.