Kohlrabi is something I remember from my childhood. My mother presented it to us, my brother, sister, and I, in the kitchen. A strange, alien form she found either at the grocery store or in her garden. It was not purple then, but a pale greeny white, as though it might taste minty or sweet like a honeydew melon. She peeled it, cut it into cubes and then served it up with toothpicks.
"It's delicious!" she announced, slurping her lips to let us know of her love for the thing.
But it was not minty, or sweet. Maybe a little bit refreshing, in a watery sort of way, with a strong whiff of broccoli. Finding it all around objectionable, the three of us squealed in horror and ran out into the yard, never to touch kohlrabi again.