I have a confession to make. It's a long time coming, and I'll do it openly.
I never ate broccoli. Never cared for it. Wouldn't eat it. Through the years, it was avoided, and if circumstances would have it that it found its way upon my plate, then well, it would be wasted.
Then the SHE came along. She likes it. She cooked it. On my plate it went. No matter, I still didn't eat it. I'm a MAN!
Well, true, a man I am, I am, haha, hehe, hoho. It became a yucky to which I had to eat. Let me explain. Somewhere, written in fossilized stone, there is a commandment of sorts that women adhere to and absolutely demand that men follow. Yes men-people, I have learned the hard way. If something goes in the kitchen, there is a specific home within that kitchen for it! No, cups can't go here; they must go there, and no, plates can't go there; they must go here. Everything within the dominion of the kitchen must be treated as if everything has an assigned location, and anything to upset the balance of that harmony must be dealt with accordingly by the women-people. [not being sexist--just conveying my experience]
So, punishment was that the man (me) would have to have a yucky--which broccoli was often the weapon.
Well, years come and go. What we enjoy over time changes. I became acclimated to broccoli, especially if cooked stove top in a wok or pan. My confession: on my own, and of my own volition, what is left of me as a man ordered Chinese takeout knowing ... I knowingly ordered it ... knowing it had broccoli in it.
No sexual fantasies about it though. That would be messed up on a whole nother level.