I will definitely blame my parents for this. Every so often we would have pork chops for dinner, which my father would turn to rubber and ash on the grill, because my mother was terrified that we would die from undercooked pork. We would eat the charred pork, talk about how terrible it was but be thankful that it wouldn't kill us, and then repeat the process a few weeks later.
Last year, my husband and I tried to make pulled pork. It was okay. Just okay. When we were at the supermarket I randomly picked up a pork tenderloin because people are always talking about how great it was. I thought maybe that if I could get past my childhood issues and eat meat that was cooked correctly, then maybe I would be a convert and a whole new world of dinner choices would open up to me.
No. The entire process was terrifying. I put it in a frying pan to brown it, and I was immediately dismayed that it wasn't actually turning brown. When I cooked it in the oven, the thermometer wasn't reading properly, and then when I cut into it, I was saddened to see it slightly pink. I googled it, and the internet told me it was safe, but all through dinner I just felt ill at ease. We were going to have the leftovers tomorrow, and like a kid again, I was trying to think of excuses not to have to eat it. Thankfully my husband felt the same uneasiness, so we got rid of it.
Now, everything tells us that it was perfectly safe and cooked properly, but I could just hear my mother telling me all the ways it could kill me.