When I was a young boy, reluctant to eat my cauliflower, my mother scolded me in the classic manner: through a war story. You see, when she was a young child not nearly my age, the communists were bombing them. So the family was taking refuge at a refugee camp. And there was not a whit to eat except pumpkins. The orange jack-o-lantern things called pumpkins. Raw. Because the communists would shoot at you if you gave away your position with a cooking fire. And my mother, who was a bit spoiled, cried and cried and cried that she could not get rice. So she did what all little kids do in such trying times: she refused to eat the pumpkins. So Grandmother went from place to place, begging, offering cash, anything to get some rice for her self starving child. But there was no rice to be found. And so, a few days later, my mother finally broke down, and through her tears, ate the pumpkins. And they were awful. And every day since, she always thanks the good Lord that she has food to eat, because food is precious and to waste it is nothing short of a sin. Needless to say, I've been traumatized. I have to clean my plate, no matter how awful or possibly spoiled, thanks to those damn pumpkins. Even when I eat with Mom, and she throws out her excess or spoiled food, I soldier on, because of those stupid stupid pumpkins. The pumpkins were screaming at me tonight. I ordered all this food for dinner, and maybe picked at half of it. I even came home and had dinner again, so little did I eat. I'm going to have nightmares of pumpkins. Stupid pumpkins.