Stuffed Peppers

My parents had a superfluity of bell peppers in their garden and I received ten or so.  This evening I made stuffed peppers for dinner. I consider this a once or twice a year delicacy, for how often does such abundance fall into my hands?

When I placed dinner on the table, you would have thought that I was asking the kids to eat twice chewed bubble gum scraped from a sidewalk that had been frequented by a roving pack of dogs with no respect for fire hydrants. But I put on my stern father's cap and insisted that each child eat a stuffed pepper.

This act might be construed as child abuse in some circles (especially among the children), but I explained that they would thank me once they reached their twenties.  My daughter thought this highly unlikely and made faces throughout the entire meal.  However, she did consume her stuffed pepper. Sometimes I have pangs of sympathy for my children when they are on the receiving end of my notions of parental responsibility. Yet in this case I felt no compunction whatever, as by some miraculous means, eating things we think we don't like builds character.

This may sound hypocritical: the same thing does not hold true for myself. It may be that my character is past molding. I do not eat anything that I do not like. But as my charming wife would surely point out, there is not anything that I don't like!