In 1943 I was nine years old, at home in Kindersley Saskatchewan. The war was on and food was scarce and choices limited. My mother was a quick cook with no frills but it was always good. With one exception! She made tomato soup with milk and canned tomatoes and never bothered to remove the tomato cores. I hated that soup. I hated the soft, sloppy, slimy, tomato gobs attached to the cores that floated in the soup. I would sit and gag for hours over it but got no relief. My parents would not bail me out no matter how long I sat. I said to my dad after a particularly long session, just to give him an idea about the seriousness of my situation, "I'd sooner eat shit." I remember this as vividly as if it was yesterday. It was in the dead of winter then. He went out to the roadway and picked up three frozen road apples. He brought them in the house, arranged them on a plate, put ketchup on them and said, "Take your choice." I ate the soup.
Frozen road apples were usually piled up to act as goal posts for road shinny and also to be a puck. I never in the past considered them useful to encourage eating in childhood. In the meantime, in Saskatchewan, when a contrived and non deft argument is made to a parent, the apt metaphor is , "Don't eat that Elmer, that's horse shit." I now have two great grandchildren and have learned to never give food advice.
Frozen road apples were usually piled up to act as goal posts for road shinny and also to be a puck. I never in the past considered them useful to encourage eating in childhood. In the meantime, in Saskatchewan, when a contrived and non deft argument is made to a parent, the apt metaphor is , "Don't eat that Elmer, that's horse shit." I now have two great grandchildren and have learned to never give food advice.
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