Thanksgiving
I have a story to tell, and this is a good place in which to tell it.
It is a Thanksgiving story, so it's even seasonally appropriate, if a trifle late.
One day, a long, long time ago, a young couple had a baby boy. The young couple were smart and nice and tried to do everything they could for the boy--and, later, his sister--but as he got older, they discovered that there were some things they just couldn't do for their son. He would say things they couldn't understand even though they knew all the words. The way he put them together just didn't make any sense to the young couple.
He would put his toys together and build things. Indeed, although he never deliberately destroyed a toy, a broken toy could become a completely different item, usable for building different things.
He didn't like sports, like all the other boys his age, preferring to read books. Also, unlike other boys his age, he never outgrew games and pretending. Quite to the contrary, as he got older he found more sophisticated games and more elaborate ways to pretend.
It was tough, but eventually the couple had to admit their son was smarter than either of them and far stranger than both.
But they never told him.
Now, the young woman who was the little boy's mother loved Thanksgiving. She enjoyed cooking large meals and having friends and family over for the feast. She especially loved experimenting with sweet potatoes and every year for Thanksgiving, she made sweet potatoes a different way. The young woman loved sweet potatoes, but her son hated them. Every year, he would take as small a lump as possible, and would eat an even smaller lump, but in the end, he just didn't like the sweet potatoes no matter how they were made and he concluded that it was the raw materials that were flawed and not the preparations. This made the little boy happy, since he could truthfully tell his mother that he didn't like the sweet potatoes without offending her cooking. Indeed, his mother was a decent cook and there were many things on the Thanksgiving table that were very tasty and he didn't mind not eating the sweet potatoes at all.
Now, the young woman believed quite strongly that one should taste everything new on a table. After all, how was one to know if one didn't like a dish if one didn't try it? This made a lot of sense to the little boy too, and he learned he liked many things he didn't think he would. But he always remembered the sweet potatoes and his conclusion about them. But his mother made sweet potatoes a new way every year and she insisted that he try them anyway. This was a very unpleasant for the little boy, since every time the sweet potatoes touched his tongue he could feel his stomach rebel and his intestines roil and he had to fight down his gorge and wait a few minutes for everything to calm down before he could eat or drink something else to take the taste off of his tongue. He didn't want to offend his mother or disgust anyone else at the table so he smiled through his discomfort and didn't eat any more of the sweet potatoes--until the next Thanksgiving, when the entire process would be repeated. As long as the little boy tasted at least a little, the young woman was satisfied, but the little boy hated even the little bit. At least it usually happened only once a year.
Now, as often happens over time, the little boy grew up into a young man. His mother still enjoyed new recipes with sweet potatoes and the young man hated them as much as ever. But this year, he decided he was old enough to make some decisions on his own and after he was passed the sweet potatoes at the Thanksgiving feast, he politely passed it on to the next person without taking any. This made his mother very angry and she said to him, in as rude a manner as she could manage: "You've never had sweet potatoes made this way before. You need to at least try them."
This, in turn, made the young man angry and he said, in that infuriatingly polite way he had learned: "Mom, every year you make sweet potatoes a new and different way, and every year it tastes so bad that I want to vomit. How much time before pattern recognition is allowed to kick in and I realize that I just don't like sweet potatoes no matter how they're prepared?"
The rest of the meal was very strained for the young man. His mother had embarrassed him and forced him to embarrass her in return. He never went back to his mother's house for Thanksgiving dinner.
It is a Thanksgiving story, so it's even seasonally appropriate, if a trifle late.
One day, a long, long time ago, a young couple had a baby boy. The young couple were smart and nice and tried to do everything they could for the boy--and, later, his sister--but as he got older, they discovered that there were some things they just couldn't do for their son. He would say things they couldn't understand even though they knew all the words. The way he put them together just didn't make any sense to the young couple.
He would put his toys together and build things. Indeed, although he never deliberately destroyed a toy, a broken toy could become a completely different item, usable for building different things.
He didn't like sports, like all the other boys his age, preferring to read books. Also, unlike other boys his age, he never outgrew games and pretending. Quite to the contrary, as he got older he found more sophisticated games and more elaborate ways to pretend.
It was tough, but eventually the couple had to admit their son was smarter than either of them and far stranger than both.
But they never told him.
Now, the young woman who was the little boy's mother loved Thanksgiving. She enjoyed cooking large meals and having friends and family over for the feast. She especially loved experimenting with sweet potatoes and every year for Thanksgiving, she made sweet potatoes a different way. The young woman loved sweet potatoes, but her son hated them. Every year, he would take as small a lump as possible, and would eat an even smaller lump, but in the end, he just didn't like the sweet potatoes no matter how they were made and he concluded that it was the raw materials that were flawed and not the preparations. This made the little boy happy, since he could truthfully tell his mother that he didn't like the sweet potatoes without offending her cooking. Indeed, his mother was a decent cook and there were many things on the Thanksgiving table that were very tasty and he didn't mind not eating the sweet potatoes at all.
Now, the young woman believed quite strongly that one should taste everything new on a table. After all, how was one to know if one didn't like a dish if one didn't try it? This made a lot of sense to the little boy too, and he learned he liked many things he didn't think he would. But he always remembered the sweet potatoes and his conclusion about them. But his mother made sweet potatoes a new way every year and she insisted that he try them anyway. This was a very unpleasant for the little boy, since every time the sweet potatoes touched his tongue he could feel his stomach rebel and his intestines roil and he had to fight down his gorge and wait a few minutes for everything to calm down before he could eat or drink something else to take the taste off of his tongue. He didn't want to offend his mother or disgust anyone else at the table so he smiled through his discomfort and didn't eat any more of the sweet potatoes--until the next Thanksgiving, when the entire process would be repeated. As long as the little boy tasted at least a little, the young woman was satisfied, but the little boy hated even the little bit. At least it usually happened only once a year.
Now, as often happens over time, the little boy grew up into a young man. His mother still enjoyed new recipes with sweet potatoes and the young man hated them as much as ever. But this year, he decided he was old enough to make some decisions on his own and after he was passed the sweet potatoes at the Thanksgiving feast, he politely passed it on to the next person without taking any. This made his mother very angry and she said to him, in as rude a manner as she could manage: "You've never had sweet potatoes made this way before. You need to at least try them."
This, in turn, made the young man angry and he said, in that infuriatingly polite way he had learned: "Mom, every year you make sweet potatoes a new and different way, and every year it tastes so bad that I want to vomit. How much time before pattern recognition is allowed to kick in and I realize that I just don't like sweet potatoes no matter how they're prepared?"
The rest of the meal was very strained for the young man. His mother had embarrassed him and forced him to embarrass her in return. He never went back to his mother's house for Thanksgiving dinner.