Potatoes.

The bane of my son's existence.

I set the plate down in front of him with a futile hopefulness that today might be the day that he wouldn't wrinkle his nose and recoil as if it were something deeply offensive. But it wasn't. And he did.

"I don't LIKE potatoes," he growled, glowering up at me.

His father frowned and made to reprimand his son's insolence, but I held up a hand to silence him.

"These aren't just any potatoes," I declared with authority, "These potatoes are grown by superheroes."

My four year old looked skeptical, but as he glanced back down at the offending objects, his eyes widened as he picked off a tiny piece of torn red silk.

"A bit of superhero's cape," I told him, conspiritorially.

His incredulous look remained as I left the room to tuck away the innocent red fabric which had ultimately changed my son's idea of potatoes.