There I was again, six years old and sitting at the kitchen table eye to eye with the roast beef that remained on my plate. Besides the boogieman, having to eat roast beef laced with veins of gooey icky fat was what I feared most in the second grade.
I was picky and lanky as a kid, which is why my parents were concerned that I wasn’t eating enough. So with good intentions, my parents set some rules to help the feeding process along. One of their “rules” was that I wasn’t allowed to leave the table or have dessert until I had eaten all of my roast beef. + MORE