Dad joins the food fights, as an antagonist

A.: What is that crap on the artichokes??
Dad: What?
A.: Is that... salsa?
Dad: Oh, yeah. I think it's an improvement.
A.: Well maybe you could improve whatever's on your own plate, and not the artichokes that are out for everyone.
Mom: Do you have to be so rude?
A.: Does dad have to destroy my food?
Mom: You're such a purist. It all started when we drove her where we shouldn't have, and now we'll have to listen to this hippie crap for the rest of our lives.

Mom is, of course, alluding to the environmental conference to which she drove me, after which I quit eating meat. Not really relevant, since--although I don't recall the details--I don't think they ever talked about artichokes or salsa. What would be more accurate would be to complain about having let me study in France and (French) Switzerland, where I learned to cook and really like food. And where I learned that food isn't about mixing together all the crap that you can find and overwhelming the flavors of individual ingredients; it's about using ingredients that speak for themselves. But as far as Russians are concerned, if it's not overwhelming, it's bland. Not that my dad doesn't have a refined palette; he did, after all, cook himself a couple of hot dogs for dinner.

***
A.: WHY IS THERE DILL ON THE TOP OF THE SALAD?? I already put dill in the salad!
Dad: There was extra from the dill you cut up for soup. Why?
A.: Because the salad doesn't need more dill. That's why.
Dad: You can never have too much dill.
A.: [Lotus. Flower.]