My maternal grandmother is at or around 90 and quite spry.  She deftly dodged my attempts at pictures and was able to mock my dad for having dropped a large jar of pickles.  She told a few stories about what was going on in her care facility but at one point said she still refused to have spaghetti and meatballs.

Me: Why no spaghetti?
Her: Terry, you need to understand my first encounter with the stuff.
Me: Ok, what was it.
Her: I had just gotten off the boat from Ireland and there was this man eating something out of a can.  He put his spoon it, and it came out with strings on it and a ball of meat.  He looked at me and asked “would you like some?  It’s spaghetti and it’s good” and the strings were stuck to his face and he had a wild look to him.   I think he was a Scot.  And since then, I swore I would never be like that man.

At least she has her principles.