Never say never

So I'm tired. Let's get that out of the way first. But I don't really want to dwell on it, despite the fact that I stayed home from work today to get some sleep and haven't managed to do so yet. GO ME.

Sorry about the empty post yesterday; somehow or other The Man was closing windows on my computer and managed to save an empty window. No idea how. You'd think that if the window were empty, somehow or other blogger might think ... huh ... this doesn't seem worth posting, are you sure you want to do this? But no. 

In other news, it appears that my significant other has finally warped my mind completely. You see, as a child I hated mushrooms. Hated. Them. It was family lore, how much I hated mushrooms. I refused to eat them, the taste, the texture, the smell ... shudder. I had eaten them, at other people's houses, to be polite, but they just make me want to vomit.

Anyway. So over the past five years, The Man has pined for mushrooms. He likes them. And every once in a while, when I can stomach him cooking them at home, he's forced me to try bites of them. Most of the time their squeaky rubberyness has set my teeth on edge, but I've choked them down. 

But you know? There are SO many good recipes out there that have mushrooms. If you try and eat vegetarian, which I often try to do, it can be hard to avoid them. I've begun wishing I liked them, just to eat those dishes I see on restaurant menus or in cookbooks that otherwise seem so tempting.

A few months back, I was at my favourite pasta store. They have three main kinds of filled pasta -- cheese, beef, and chicken / mushroom. I'm tired of cheese. I don't want red meat. So I get the chicken / mushroom. I take it home. I cook it. I feed it to my son. I eat it.

I don't hate it.

Now, true enough, too much mushroom flavour every once in a while gave me the skeeves, but this is the same woman who, five years previously, rejected pizza because it had tiny pieces of diced mushrooms in the sauce. Not hating it is victory!

The other day The Man and I went out for lunch sans child, and he looked at me in a pleading way and said -- would you mind very much if I got the mushroom soup? I acquiesced, and he was served the soup and offered me a bite. And ... And ... I actually kind of liked it.

This Sunday, we went to the nearby farmer's market. And The Man seized the moment and bought a large bag of end of the season chantrelle mushrooms, which he assures me are the kind of mushrooms, second only to truffles, and which we are lucky enough to have grow 'round these parts. Yesterday he cooked them up with cream and parmesan cheese for sauce for pasta. I cannot resist cream and cheese. It's like he wants me to like them or something. 

He gave me a taste. My mind still rebelled a little at the texture, but the taste ... was actually good. 

And I woke up in the night once and remembered what was for dinner tonight and was excited by the prospect of this. 

And you know? I'll never live this down. Never. I'm the one who hates mushrooms! My identity will never be the same!