When I was three or four, I ate raw onions. This is what my parents tell me, anyway. My mom would give me a peeled white onion and I would eat it like an apple. I must have been a pleasant kid to come home to at the end of a long workday.
I have no memory of this. But I do know that as an adult, I’m anti-onion. I will eat onions when they’re fully cooked, caramelized or hidden in soups as mirepoix. But don’t you dare try to feed me raw onion. I don’t care if it’s in the world’s most delicious fresh salsa, sliced thinly on top of smoked salmon, or diced on a hot dog. I won’t eat it. I must have exceeded my raw onion quota when I was a kid.