It took two Thanksgivings after my Grandma Herlocker died before we stopped having her favorite dish (I don't remember what it was, I was maybe 7 at the time, but it was awful — at least for a seven-year-old). My mother kept making it because my father "loved it" and my father ate it because my mother made it. My sister and I ate it because we had to eat everything on our plates, of course. It wasn't until we were going through leftovers after Thanksgiving #2 that everyone fessed up about disliking it.

Rutabaga! OMG, it came back like a PTSD flashback!

Okay, weird thing though — decades later (in my late 30s, but before I met Deb) I was at my parents' home helping with dinner, and I got tasked with a particular dish. I had most of it done before I found out what I was working on, at which point I reminded my mother nobody liked it. Except I tried a sample, and actually it wasn't half bad. I tried some seasonings and more butter and damn! Not too shabby!

Very odd. I remember little kid me hating it, I remember 30-something me liking it. Not enough to make it since then, however.