I’ve never liked coleslaw. In fact, I’m pretty sure coleslaw and I are mortal enemies. My dislike didn’t sprout out of nowhere; it’s rooted in an event so traumatic that I’ve banned coleslaw from my life ever since. It all began in the summer of 1974, a time of wood-paneled station wagons, questionable décor choices, and dads with no chill.

A Family DIY and Dinner Disaster

It was a hot summer day, and my parents had invited friends over to create a wooden mural for the family room. This wasn’t a casual Pinterest project—it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. One dad was cutting wood, the other gluing it, while we kids served as unpaid labor, hauling wood back and forth like tiny sherpas.

After a day of sawdust and sweat, the dads declared that a feast was in order. The moms, understandably unwilling to brave the kitchen in the heat, piled into the station wagon and returned with the Colonel’s finest: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, biscuits, corn on the cob, and… the dreaded coleslaw.

My Dad’s War on Waste

Now, my dad was a man of many principles, but his top two were: kids should be seen and not heard, and food should never be wasted. He was a Depression-era kid, and in his eyes, leaving food on your plate was a cardinal sin. Unfortunately for me, I ended up seated to his left at the dinner table, the unofficial throne of doom for the eldest child.

As the food made its rounds, I quietly skipped the coleslaw. My dad, ever the hawk, immediately noticed.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

“Yes?” I replied, trying to feign innocence.

“You didn’t take any coleslaw.”

“Oh, I don’t like coleslaw,” I said politely. “It makes me sick.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Waste not, want not. You’re going to have some coleslaw. There are kids starving in foreign countries who’d kill for coleslaw.”

Ah, the classic guilt trip. Before I could protest further, he scooped a heaping tablespoon of that mayonnaise-soaked cabbage abomination onto my plate.

The Standoff

I tried to eat everything around the coleslaw. Chicken? Gone. Mashed potatoes and gravy? Obliterated. Biscuit? Toasted. I even polished off the corn on the cob like a pro. But that coleslaw just sat there, staring at me with its soupy, vinegar-soaked malice. It was a duel, and neither of us was backing down.

My dad caught on.

“You’re not leaving this table until you eat that coleslaw,” he said, in a tone that left no room for negotiation.

“Dad, please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything. Just not the coleslaw.”

But he wasn’t budging. With the authority of a 1970s dad, he scooped up the entire spoonful, held it aloft, and commanded: “Open.”

The Incident

I opened. The coleslaw went in. And my life was forever changed.

I chewed. It expanded. I chewed more. It somehow became bigger. It was as if the coleslaw was mocking me from the inside out. Desperate, I grabbed my dad’s drink—didn’t care what it was—and tried to drown the cabbagey horror.

That’s when the nausea hit.

My dad, ever the disciplinarian, warned me: “If you get sick, you’re cleaning it up.” Spoken like a true 1970s dad. But there was no stopping it. Tears welled up in my eyes as my stomach revolted. And then… it happened.

I leaned over the table and unleashed Puke Fest 1974.

The fried chicken, the mashed potatoes, the gravy, even the corn on the cob—it was all collateral damage. The coleslaw had won. My dad, looking like he’d seen a ghost, scooped me up and sprinted for the bathroom. My mom, yelling at him to get out of her way, followed close behind.

The Aftermath

The dining room was a war zone. I was sobbing in the shower while my dad apologized on repeat. My mom, a saint among mortals, took charge. She got me cleaned up, dressed, and then whisked me away, leaving the rest of the traumatized dinner party to clean up the carnage.

Where did we go? Ice cream, I think. Or maybe a burger. I don’t really remember. What I do remember is the unspoken promise we made to each other that day: no more coleslaw. Ever.

Generational Trauma or Just Bad Parenting?

To this day, I can’t look at coleslaw without gagging. The smell alone sends me into a spiral. And while my dad’s intentions might have been good, I think we can all agree that forcing a kid to eat coleslaw against their will was a colossal parenting fail.

So, does this count as generational trauma? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a cautionary tale about why you should never mess with a kid and their food preferences. Either way, coleslaw and I are done. Forever.