Canned vegetables bring back memories. I imagine a much younger version of my mom in the kitchen of our bungalow-style house on the far south side of Chicago. She’d be screaming “somebody come open these vegetables!”, as she seasoned the chicken wings or preheated the oven for fish sticks. We got corn, green beans and my least favorite, mixed vegetables with every dinner. I remember turning the can opener with all my seven-year-old might until the salty liquid surrounding the veggies dripped down the can, sometimes bursting onto my exposed legs and drenching my big t-shirts. My mom used the top portion of the can as a barrier to keep the vegetables in while she poured the surrounding liquid into the sink. She’d then put the small chunks of vegetables into a small pot, top it with a few square pieces of butter, pepper and seasoning salt, and put a covering over it.

The veggies simmered for about five to 10 minutes before they were ready to hit our plates. Dinnertime was one of few opportunities that my stay-at-home mom, in her late 20s at the time, had to watch television networks other than Disney and Nickelodeon. She would frequently checked in on the seven of us eating in the kitchen from her post on the couch. She was quick with her threat of no sweets after dinner if the veggies were not gone by her fifth check-in. My dad wasn’t usually home for dinnertime. He was working as a correctional officer at the time and the sole source of income for the family.

We all had different strategies of conquering the plastic veggie dilemma. Mine was to stuff all of the little bites in my mouth as soon as I received my plate and gulp them down quickly — better to get it over with, I thought. My two older sisters would sometimes mix their veggies into their meal, I guess to offset the taste. My three younger sisters, who were ages two, three and four, ate a few bites and used the rest to decorate the linoleum floors. The carrots chunks would make dull orange fireworks on the tiles as my mom smudged them under her house shoes, walking back and forth to the kitchen.

Finally, there was my brother, the only boy and the middle child — one year younger than me. He was the most inventive. He’d avoid the vegetables to the very end, even while all the rest of us were enjoying our after-dinner popsicles or fruit cocktails in front of the television. My mom would be sitting in the kitchen, watching him closely at this point. First she’d start firm with, “we’re going to sit here all night until you eat every single bite!” before she progressed to the compromise of “okay Jo Jo, just eat a few and I’ll let you go, but no sweets!” Then he’d break down into a full tantrum, crying and gagging through the few spoonfuls my mom drove into his mouth. They did this practically every night, except when we had corn — we all loved corn. And my brother would usually end up getting his dessert after this tantrum, which was a rarity, getting my no-nonsense mom to budge. He was just that good, I thought.

Canned vegetables were a staple in my diet, until I was around 13 years old. That’s when my father was diagnosed with high blood pressure. My dad seemed like the biggest, toughest man in the world to me, standing over six feet tall with a muscular build. It was a surprise to hear that my father had health problems. My parents began slowly to change our diets after my father’s diagnosis. They learned that the canned vegetables that they forced us to eat — and that their parents forced them to eat as children — were loaded with sodium and other additives.

My mom eventually got a job working overnight security for city hospital, which helped to afford us better quality groceries. She began traveling to different grocery stores around the city to get better deals on fresh fruits and vegetables. She would come home excited to have us try her new soup and smoothie recipes. Our pantry was stripped of canned vegetables. To this day, I don’t buy them.

JoVona Taylor