My mother, like mothers everywhere, is a very sneaky woman.
One day I sat down to dinner and found in front of me a perennial, all-Italian- American favorite: spaghetti and meatballs. Since it was the summer and, most importantly, time to eat, I could not help but sniff eagerly at the wafting aromas of basil and Parmesan while waiting impatiently for dinner to start. So far, so good. As I scarfed down my first plate of spaghetti, I had only a vaguely disquieting sense that my mother had an unusual glint in her eye. Only after I had finished reluctantly pushing my spinach around my plate and finally eaten it did I realize what had just happened. My mom had used me as a lab rat.