When we were on our vacation a few weeks back, we went to a restaurant that had breakfast all day. As the boys were eating pancakes, I had what the menu called French Dip, a roast beef sandwich with Au Jus.

“What’s that?” my youngest son asked as I was dipping.

“Blood.” I took a bite, tipping my mouth to keep it from running down my chin.

He  looked at me, horrified.  “Na-ah!”

“Try it,” I said around my mouthful. “Dip a piece of pancake.”

“No way!”

“I will!” His older brother said. He dipped a pancake piece and stuck it in his mouth. After a moment of shock, he smiled. “Mm-mm!” he said. “It’s delicious.”

My youngest son watched him carefully. “You’re joking. You don’t really like it.”

“Yes, I do. It’s – ” he forced himself to swallow. “Delicious.”

“Just try a little,” I said. “Just a little piece of pancake with a little Au Jus. You might like it!”

Eyeing me suspiciously, he dipped a piece of pancake in, then popped it in his mouth.

“Uck!” His eyes bulged as the flavor hit his tongue, and his cheeks puffed out.

His brother burst out laughing. “I got you! I so got you!”

“It’s a little spicy,” I said.

“It’s horrible!”

“Oh, come on. You mean you don’t like spiced blood?”

“I’m gonna be sick!”

“It’s better on a sand-”

Too late. He shoved past me and ran to the bathroom to spit it out.

Oh well. Who knew blood was an acquired taste?