I remember hating tacos as a kid. My younger brother hated steak.
This was because we almost never went out to eat until we were teenagers and we only knew certain dishes as they were prepared by my father. My Irish father. He meant well, but his tacos had chunks of uncooked onions and green peppers in them. His steak was cold in the middle and completely burned all around the edges.
Last night my wife asked me why I never made pesto sauce on pasta night. I told her that I hated pesto sauce and I would never make it. She said, "Have you ever had pesto sauce that wasn't made by your father?"
I can't believe I'm 31 and I'm still recovering from my father's culinary disasters. Tonight is pesto night!