The crab cake debacle
I have never like veggies. Part of it is that we were poor, and my mum didn’t believe in making food tasty; it was there to sustain you, not to enjoy. Dinners were a constant battle on who caved first: me, choking down enough boiled, unseasoned lumps of chlorophyll to get permission to leave the table, or everyone else getting sick of waiting and my mum sending me to my room for the rest of the night as “punishment.”
One night, mum tried making crab cakes with imitation crab, white bread crumbs, egg, mayo, and frozen spinach, thinking there was no way I could pick all the spinach out of the cakes. I refused to even try, despite being hungry. An ultimatum was delivered, “you will sit there until those are gone!” and everyone else left.
I managed a few bites, choking them down with water, but quickly ran out of water and was told I couldn’t have more until my plate was clean. Three hours later, both my sisters in bed, parents ready to go to sleep, and I’m still sitting at the table, stomach rumbling, refusing to eat the leaden, unflavored, boiled-green crab cakes. Mum came by to check on me again, saw no progress made, and hit her enrage timer.
She grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, snatched up a crab cake with her other hand and literally crammed it in my mouth, holding her hand over my mouth so I couldn’t spit it out, and screaming at me to eat it. Dad heard the commotion, came and pulled me away from mum, and told me to go to my room. Got to listen to them yelling at each other for hours until they went to bed and I could creep back out in search of edible food.
Not a big fan of crab cakes, still.
