Hate at first sight can often turn into love. I remember meeting my husband in someone else's house, taking one look and asking when he was leaving. Three years later, I arrived horribly late at Hawling Church, all dressed up to marry him.
Sixteen years on from that date, and the man I married has revived a teenage ambition to ride as an amateur jockey, losing several stone to reach the ideal racing weight. Lentils, something else with which I began an ambiguous relationship, play a vital part in the diet.
Being his stablemate, it is only fair to follow the regime with him and not sit there downing bottles of Tariquet in his presence. Consequently, we are eating lentils noon and night. I should be bored, but oddly, never am.
Scroll back to a much longer time ago and this would have been unthinkable. I can still remember the first time my mother made lentils and served them with boiled ox tongue.
As a teenager I was horror-struck. Ox tongue I could cope with (she was brilliant at cooking it) but these lentil things, I decided, were much worse than the dreaded grey peas they gave us at school. Earthy, slightly floury, I laboured to swallow a single mouthful.
I did not know that my mother was ahead of her time, cooking little green lentilles de Puy long before they were discovered by modern British chefs in the Eighties, nor did I ever expect to love them.