Dad made sure there was liver on the menu at least once a month, which was total crap. The serving plate would be brought out and set in the middle of the table, and we knew what was next. Dad would snag the bacon from around the liver, and leave that slab of tasty goodness for the rest of us. Mom liked liver, so no sweat there. She comes from a place that likes kidney's in their pie, so what's a little liver?
The next three hours were hell. It usually came to the point that the milk was removed from the table because us kids would use that to wash down miniscule bits of liver. It lasted a few months, but like WhyFi, I buried that crap deep into the hinterlands of my subconscious, only to be brought out at a time like this.