Today is Palm Sunday, a day when Christians celebrate the triumphal entry Jesus made into the city of Jerusalem symbolizing the beginning of Holy Week.  As a child I remember a few very basic things about Palm Sunday; waiving palm branches while singing a song with the word "Hosanna" in it, the disappointment about never having a real donkey in church and the anticipation of Easter sugar highs only seven short days away.

One year, Palm Sunday held a very different memory for me, the ever-looming menu of next week's brunch at Myra Christensen's house and the fact I would have to eat.... quiche.  How could my new (read, hand-me-down but still pretty) Easter dress have been put to any worse use than to look cute while eating a food that wasn't even spelled like it sounded.  I mean if you're going to force me to down some crust encased egg-based conglomeration at least make it phonetically viable.

I wouldn't say I was a terribly picky eater as a child but the names of foods often precluded my willingness to eat them.  For example, if you said we were having focaccia bread I wouldn't touch it, if you said cheesy garlic bread, I'd be all over it.  My mom learned that quite quickly and it turns out I loved quiche, but she just called it "impossible pie."  I remember the nights my mom made spinach and cheese impossible pie, those were the best nights ever!

Shakespeare said, a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.  It turns out the same principle applies to weird French named foods given pseudonyms when fed to children.