My mother didn't even try to feed me most vegetables. (Kind of a shame, since I like many of them now.)
One night, she tried to force stewed tomatoes down me. Wouldn't let me leave the dinner table for three hours. This was a night when we had company over, too.
Understand, she'd never even tried to get me to eat stewed tomatoes before. The idea was that when I'd been little, I'd liked fresh tomatoes for a while, and then I suddenly refused to eat them. So she figured I'd like them if I only tried them again.
The thing is, to this day I don't like cooked tomatoes. I use raw ones in my recipes and only add them in at the end to warm them up.
It wasn't until college that I even considered trying tomatoes again. They smelled wonderful in the dorm salad bar, and I finally tried fresh ones.
Looking back, I think she probably gave me one that was overripe or had a rotten spot one day, and that was what I didn't like. I was too small to know why it tasted bad, to explain to her, so all I could say was that it didn't taste right.