I was five. My mother made meatloaf. You know, the mystery meat rolled and kneaded together, with onions, spices, bread or crackers, and topped off with ketchup? She put it in the oven to bake, and when it can out, it was rock hard, dry as a bone, and smelled like rotten onions. She tried to feed it to our obese pitbull, but not even the cat shit-eating dog was willing to follow that culinary disaster down the road to dyspepsia.