When I was very small, I hated Shirley Temple. I didn't just hate her a little bit. My baby-anger was powerful. I'm not sure it has completely left me, as every time I have the opportunity to try the drink named after her, I react as though someone were trying to get me to drink calf's blood.
It's because of the little old ladies. One of my first memories is of little old ladies towering over me like monsters in a Winnie the Pooh cartoon saying, “You look just like Shirley Temple. Can I take you home with me?”
That question always followed the declaration that I was the second coming of the curly-haired one. It also freaked my four-year-old sh**.
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