When I was a teenager I used to babysit once in a while for people in the neighborhood. I am ashamed to admit that I was not a good babysitter. I had lots of little brothers at home that I babysat on a regular basis, so I certainly wasn't doing it out of the goodness of my heart. I did it for the money and the fact that the food at other peoples' houses was usually a lot more interesting that what we had at my house.
My mom wasn't big on cooking, at least by the time I was a teenager. I think she was tired of pretty much everything by the time I was a teen. I do remember her making Spanish Rice once in a while when my older brother would complain loudly enough and she would usually do a roast on Sunday. I can't for the life of me remember eating much of anything else. Our house was one of those houses where you would eat a lot of leftovers, but you didn't remember actually eating the meal the first time.
Anyway, one night I was babysitting for a family in the neighborhood. This family usually had bags of Pepperidge Farm cookies in the freezer. The fact that I even remember that all these years later must say something about me. (And it's probably not a very good something, is it?) This particular night they also had a nice, big family-sized bag of licorice. Black and red. The mom said the kids and I could have some.
Now I was just at the point in my life where I was learning to appreciate black licorice, so this was intriguing to me. I put the kids to bed as early as I could and then proceeded to eat the whole bag. By myself. Black AND red.
Well, I paid dearly for that because I was up all night, that night, throwing up.
Black and red.
And I haven't touched the stuff since.
Especially black licorice. Even the smell of it can send me over the edge. Hal is a big fan of licorice, so I try to always have some on hand for him but I don't buy the black stuff. Once in a while he comes home with it, but he has to eat it far away from me.