There’s a story that I’ve heard many, many times in my life, and it goes like this: as a young girl, my mother and I were visiting my grandmother and great grandmother, and we were served cooked carrots for dinner. I tried them, looked up at my mother and said “These are delicious! Why don’t we have them at home more often?” to which my mother responded: “Because I hate them, and now that I’m an adult, I don’t have to make or eat them if I don’t want to!”
Long story short, I’ve loved cooked carrots since I was a kid, but because my mom didn’t like them, I hardly ever had them. Fast forward a number of years, and I still don’t have cooked carrots as much as I’d like to because now instead of having a mother who doesn’t care for them, I have a husband who does care for them.
I have discovered, however, that he will grudgingly eat cooked carrots as long as they’re roasted with red onions. And even then, he mostly just eats the onions.