I had the common childhood aversion to parsley, carefully removing each miniscule piece from the mashed potatoes or rice my mother had made. One day she simply asked me to get some sprigs of parsley out of the garden, but to kneel down and smell them before picking them and to select only the ones with the most pleasant smell. When I brought them to the kitchen, she showed me how to use a knife to mince them, and told me that she wouldn't put any parsley in the potatoes I ate if I didn't want any. For the first time in my life I nibbled on a sprig of parsley, and then said she didn't have to do that. I would eat the parslied potatoes.

Many decades later, we have a large pot of parsley growing on our deck, and I understand how artfully my mother had eliminated my aversion to parsley.