Every now and then, my brain goes traveling down Memory Lane for no specific reason. And it comes back with a totally random very specific piece of my past.
Usually something that has to do with my childhood.
Chéri is very familiar with these Family Flashes, because I always feel the need to share them with him, when they happen.
I thought I’d start a little series, like a scrapbook of these tiny bits of my life.
This one is not especially family related, but when I found the following picture, I felt like sharing the anecdote anyway…
Meet 5 or 6 years old me. And my kindergarden teacher, Sister Georgette. Both blurry, I know, but blame early eighty’s cameras for that.
Unlike many children, I was absolutely thrilled to start going to school. I’ve always been hungry to learn, and this picture was the beginning of my ever-ongoing learning adventure. With Sister Georgette, I remember mastering the art of tying my shoes… A big achievement, when you’ve just entered the schooling system.
Sister Georgette was kind, and well intentionned. But one day, we had a confrontation. And that’s quite something, if you’ve ever been taught by a nun.
That day, my classmates and I came to school probably expecting to finger paint, and practice our alphabet. But I was in for a big (and quite unpleasant) surprise.
Sister Georgette had arranged an egg tasting. I said ”egg” but that was more like ”eggs” with a capital S at the end.
Somehow she had put her hand on all kinds of eggs…. Chicken (of course), duck, quail, others I can’t think of at the moment, and even an ostrich egg. There was a lot of effort put into this, because we then lived in a remote area North of Québec, and that was long before Amazon could deliver clipped toe nails of your favorite star overnight.
I was aware that what was happening was somewhat of a privilege.
But the thing is, I hate eggs. I always have, and I still do to this day. I don’t like their taste, I don’t like their texture, I only use them in recipes, but never as a whole part of the dish.
But in the early eighties, children had to try E-VE-RY-THING. Or so did Sister Georgette think. After cooking every feathery friend’s eggs for the class, she insisted that I took a bite of every species’ omelette.
”I don’t eat eggs, Sister” I said.
Which apparently was not a viable argument. Because Hey! I was just a kid, not meant to have any opinion. But sometimes, I guess, refusals are just not unfounded.
Mom had tried hard to make me enjoy the taste of eggs as a toddler. With no success. I always hated it, it always made me gag. I tried it many ways, and decided I wouldn’t eat it anymore.
Sister Georgette, not minding how I appreciated her, still forced me to taste the eggs, like my classmates.
And to this day, I still remember.
I didn’t die, but I was hurt. I don’t like eggs. Thanks anyway for trying, Sister!