There was a law in our house: if you didn't like what was on your plate, it didn't matter — you had to eat it all. This rule was enforced unless we were too sick to sit there or were absent altogether! My brother, Alan, was always trying to escape the likes of cold creamed peas, canned corned beef, or liver in gravy. He would hide a wad in his pockets or the cuffs of his pants and, convincingly full, would leave the table.
Once he was being so gross at dinnertime, he was sent to his room to eat. He went happily and returned minutes later with a suspiciously empty plate. He said he had eaten everything, but there was evidence to the contrary; the gravy was scraped to the side of the plate and the toilet had just been flushed. With her hands on her hips, Mom accused him of lying, but he stuck to his story. It was his word against the gravy. She gave him "the glare" but he stared her down. Mom dragged Alan to the biff. She wanted to scope out the scene of the crime but found nothing to pin on him. The gravy trail was the only real evidence; the one thing that could trip him up. With Alan's ear between her thumb and forefingers, she marched him brusquely back into the kitchen to resume her interrogation...and found our dad happily washing the dishes. The accused's plate was clean. From that day on, the rule was altered to allow for differences in tastes and appetites. Once again, Alan had defied our mom, and Dad was a hero. Until then, even HE had to eat stuff he hated!