When I was a kid, I was afraid of spinach. I told my cousin once, when I was probably eight, that if his mom was looking for stuff in the grocery store and there were too many people around, he should park the cart in front of the spinach, because no one ever wants spinach. So it would be a bit more peaceful there.
Of course the only form of spinach I was familiar with at that point was the cooked variety. All soggy and smelly and icky.
I can’t remember when I tried raw spinach. Sometime in the 1990s, I imagine. I developed most of my food sense after I moved to Chicago and started hanging out with people who were the opposite of my picky self, including my husband. Now I like to put it on everything. Pretty much every pizza I make, without too much interference from my kiddo, has spinach on it. His preference is always ham and pineapple or plain pepperoni. But he always eats the other kind too, and doesn’t pick the spinach off. (He does, however, pick off the kalamata olives. What’s with that?)
I still don’t like the cooked variety much, though.