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Jack Christopolis was one of my best friends growing up. When I was invited to dinner at his house, his mom made typical midwestern fair for Jack and his brothers, his dad, and me. From meatloaf and mashed potatoes to roasted chicken with carrots and onions, eating at Jack’s house was a lot like eating at home. With one exception. Jack had a very narrow flavor palate, and refused to eat his own mother’s cooking. She made him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich almost every time I had dinner with Jack’s family. At my house, the options were limited to eating what was lovingly prepared for me, or starving until breakfast when I could eat last night’s dinner cold.
