I feel bad for telling this story about my own mother.
My mother had a farm girls taste in food. When I was very young in the mid 1960’s I have this memory: Mom would sit down by herself in the kitchen for a “gourmet meal” of buttermilk, limburger cheese and pickled pigs feet. It was the smell of the cheese wafting through the house that would make us (perhaps it was just me) complain. I wish I had been a bit more tolerant of my mothers sense of taste. But for a six year old polite tolerance is a bridge too far.