This post was inspired by the one and only Eren Davis (pictured above).
Last week, at our Bible study, Eren asked me to try one of the apple chips you can see her holding while sitting in the HSS amphitheatre. I obliged after saying there was no way I would like it because I hate apples. So, did I like it? No. The apple taste wasn't too overpowering, but still... gross.
You might be thinking, "Emma, this blog post is underwhelming to say the least. You're just telling us you tried a food and didn't like it." You would be wrong. You see, Eren challenged me to make a whole blog post about this encounter. And I'm not one to back down from a challenge. Ask anyone that has ever dared me to lick something off the floor for verification. (Sorry Mom, the people need to know the truth.) More on that in a later post.
This challenge inspired me to give a little rant about my life with respect to apples. So, if you're interested... here you go:
I hate apples. Anyone that knows me knows that well. I've always hated them. When I was little, my mom, in desperation to make me like fruit, would cut up apples into tiny little triangles and serve them to me with peanut butter. When Nutella was introduced to the world, peanut butter was replaced. I complained, and complained, and complained. But, still, I forced them down my throat.
It was the skin that I hated so bad. I would just keep chewing, in hopes that the taste and texture of the skin would go away. Then, once I managed to swallow, I would gag. Sometimes, I would just stand by the trashcan eating my apple slices praying to God that I would throw up so that Mom would let me off the hook.
It may sound like I'm bitter towards my mom for this. But I promise I'm not. In fact, I plan to do the same thing to my kids. While I remember it being hugely negative emotional experience, it definitely would've been less painful if I hadn't been so stubborn. Plus, the fight Mom had with me in regards to fruit was a long and tiring one. The earliest memory I have is one that involves a disobedient, lying 3-year old me and a hidden banana (I'll make that a post, too).
I have one very distinct memory about eating an apple that I use as an anecdote anytime apples come up. My parents and brothers would tell you it in exactly the same was as I am about to.
It was a normal evening. Our family had just finished dinner. Or, at least, everyone else had. I had one more task to finish before I could leave the dining room table. Eat half of an apple. Half. Just half. How long did it take me? How long did I sit there just staring at the apple? How long did I spend complaining?
An hour and a half. You read that right. An hour. And a half. That's ridiculous. Think I'm exaggerating? We timed it on our microwave. I only present you with the facts.
I've tried numerous ways to trick my mind into liking apples now that I'm legally an adult. This summer, I tried eating one every day for a week and after every bite saying, "I love this apple. It tastes so good." But to no avail. I hate apples. It's part of my identity at this point. But it gave me something to blog about. So, to all the apples out there: thank you, and stay away from me.
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