I could see this going either way.

I was an au pair and the primary cook for the non-meat parts of lunch, dinner, and dessert for 10-18 people every day for a couple of summers when I was 16-17 (I never realized how weird it was to give me that much responsibility at that age), because the family I was with had bought an old farm with their best friends and the adults spent all day renovating the buildings. They weren’t farmers, which is why they had planted zucchini in the open field next to several acres of essentially empty space (their neighbor harvested hay from their land, but they were concentrating on the buildings at that point).

They gave me 30 zucchini a day and I made them into tarts, fritters, all manner of ratatouilles, and cakes. I grilled them, fried them, baked them, and pickled them. I ate them for three meals a day (the earliest riser made zucchini pancakes for breakfast every morning, of course), every day.

I was lukewarm on zucchini beforehand (it’s too wet to treat as a vegetable and not sweet enough to treat as a fruit), but afterwards I hated it. Passionately.

In my mid-twenties, I signed up for a farm share and suddenly had to find a way to eat zucchini again for the first time in years. I couldn’t stomach the thought of any of my previous repertoire, but zoodles were a fad by then and it was different from anything else I had had, so I gave it a shot.

At first, they still weren’t my bag, but after eating them a couple of times a week while being able to tweak my preparation to only my preferences, I developed a taste for them again. Now I can even occasionally enjoy a ratatouille, which is peak wet zucchini. It never sends me on a positive memory journey though.