I am a picky eater. I used to be a lot pickier. I didn't like mushrooms or strawberries because of their texture. I like both quite a bit now (because of their taste). I threw up once at an amusement park after my parents forced me to eat a lunchmeat sandwich that had mustard on the bread (at least I warned them that I would puke if they made me eat it).
My pickiness often didn't jive with my mother's cooking and my father's strictness. I remember being stuck at the dinner table one time when I was quite young, sitting with gristle in my mouth because chewing it wasn't doing the job, and I wasn't allowed to get down until it was gone. Someone asked me what I was doing, and I told them I was waiting for it to dissolve.
Other times, it wasn't that I couldn't chew or stomach what I was being forced to eat, but it was about the quantity. My eyes were often bigger than my stomach. I would come home from school to soggy cereal my mother had so kindly saved for me to finish because I couldn't in the morning.
Oh, we had tricks to get away from being stuck at the table. There was the food-in-the-napkin trick, which we sometimes could get away with but didn't count on. Or we would save some of our milk and spit our broccoli into the milk, hoping it wouldn't be noticed. I was apparently the most creative in my family. I hid my food in different locations. A portion of a hamburger was found behind our organ. I think I pulled that one off more than once, though. Food was flushed down toilets (yes, the I-have-to-go-to-the-bathroom excuse worked for me). And one time, I guess I was worried about the food clogging the toilet, so I smashed the remnants of my taco underneath the bathroom rug.
I was a little hellion at times. I think when I have kids, I'll just let them lave their food behind. And maybe if we have lots of leftovers, I can make some interesting shakes or soup or even pea pancakes like I once had to eat for breakfast. That's more fun than trying to win at hide-and-seek with food.