I’m the victim of a lifelong social experiment.
You see, I don’t like onions much; I simply cannot stand raw onion, unless Spanish, cooked is alright, but it should be free of crunchy texture and not alone. Mixed so I don’t notice is best.
This all stems from my childhood, which is when the experiment started.
Perhaps he only wanted to help me, perhaps he was just curious as to what could or would happen, and so as it happened my Dear Father integrated onion into anything he could.
At that early age, my laziness was over-ridden by my dislike for onion. I would dig and scour through rice, separating the onion from the edible morsels.
Naturally, as time would have it, I grew up. I’ll just eat the damned rice straight now, but the effect on my Father is yet to be understood.
I called him out just the other day as he attempted to put onion in something ridiculous, it may have been cake?
Such an act, I determined, could stem from one of two motives: either, his unnecessary addition of onion to most meals for the last twenty years or so creates a subconscious rule where food cannot exist without onion, requiring its presence for physical and mental digestion, or he’s fucking with me.