When we were seven, my friends and I loved to eat spinach. Not because we liked the taste. God no. Raw spinach tasted like, well, leaves, and the goop we’d spoon out of the can was vile, smelly stuff. No, we ate spinach because Popeye ate spinach.

It made him instantly muscular and powerful-a can of spinach and he could punch through brick walls. We could only imagine how it would transform our pre-pubescent bodies into superhero physiques. We shoveled it down our throats, testing our gag reflexes, and satisfying our mothers.

Continue Reading…