Maybe we should try to pin the blame on our parents. (Isn't that the pop-psychology 'thing-to-do'?)
One of my first failed business ventures (everything has to relate to business, these days) was trying to trade my daily liverwurst sandwich for ANYthing during first grade lunch period. Nowadays, I like a good liverwurst, but one from a German or Jewish delicatressen, not the grocery store kind.
Then there's mutton. I love lamb in just about any form. Mutton, smothered like liver-and-onions, is good, although I admit that it's probably an acquired taste. But due to an overdose in the late 1940's, early 1950's, I still can't handle it. These days, mutton is hard to find, at least in the USA.
I blame Mom's cooking. She had a rare talent of being able to render ANYthing edible inedible. As a result, I had one too many grit as a kid. ...likewise, collard/mustard/any kinda green. ...and mutton had the consistency of rubber tire, and tasted and smelled like... eeew. ...something you might have run over after a few days lying in the road.
It was not until I went to work and got to travel that I learned a possible reason: British food. (She was a genealogy nut.) I know better, now: I've had good blood sausage in Chile and blutwurst in Germany. Blood sausage in England is nasty. My mother was an advocate of British-style cooking - - boil it. She was the only person I know who could cook a "no soggy undercrust" chicken pot pie and make it fall apart in goo (...sogs?). All meat turned gray under her eye, except when it went quickly to black smoke. The first time I ate bacon in a restaurant, I didn't recognize it- - it didn't taste burned.
...but the happiest I ever was, at least in the Army, was one day, on KP, when the mess sergeant and I were the only ones in the company who liked liver and onions. I got a full trencher and he got the other, almost untouched. I carry the consequences on my waistline and in my arteries to this day.
