Hello everyone. My good friend Peter asked that I write a little something on my experience growing up in a household that sometimes enjoyed animals' innards. So here it goes: Liver and onions was something that seemed like punishment for the longest time growing up. It was a meal that my parents would make me eat, or my grandparents, first generation Greek-Americans, would guilt me and my brothers into eating. Their tactic was telling us we couldn’t become members of the “Clean Plate Club” and partake in dessert if we didn’t finish everything on our plates. There was always something about the texture that really got me.
An Ode to Innards
An Ode to Innards
An Ode to Innards
Hello everyone. My good friend Peter asked that I write a little something on my experience growing up in a household that sometimes enjoyed animals' innards. So here it goes: Liver and onions was something that seemed like punishment for the longest time growing up. It was a meal that my parents would make me eat, or my grandparents, first generation Greek-Americans, would guilt me and my brothers into eating. Their tactic was telling us we couldn’t become members of the “Clean Plate Club” and partake in dessert if we didn’t finish everything on our plates. There was always something about the texture that really got me.