Growing up, dinnertime was the time of day when my Mom, my brother and I were the most tired, cranky and unreasonable. This was no time to bond or learn to like each other. This was no time to stand elbow to elbow and smile as we grated carrots in tandem. This was a time to squeal into the 7-11 parking lot in our hatchback Civic. Bark at the old woman in the green smock behind the counter that we wanted those (pointing with hungry shaky fingers) THOSE seven donairs, slowly spinning in the hot-as-Hades display case sitting beside the cigarettes. All of those greasy rolls of sweaty beef and dough for us. With extra napkins and make it snappy, Grandma.
I grew up. Met a dude and got married. Before we had our kid, I could disguise some leftovers as dinner for my husband, and present it with enough of a flourish that he wouldn’t have the heart to complain. I’d settle in with a bowl of cereal, piled high with fruit and white sugar, and be totally content. Sure I’d crash at 9pm and snort down a fistful of cold cuts in front of the fridge, but being an adult means that’s okay. As long as your husband doesn’t notice the mayonnaise on your pajamas, it’s all good in the ‘hood.
Then, comes a kid. You need to stop pretending to be an adult and actually do shit that has some semblance of adulthood. Creating grocery lists, shopping, checking items off a list and then assembling them into dinnertime bites was a start.
I learned how to carbonara. I learned how to pronounce charcuterie. I sautéed, I roasted, I tried weird cheese smeared on kale chips; I made my own goddamn simple syrup.
But guess what my 3-year-old’s favourite dinner is? You already know, because it’s a universal adoration. If an army of 3-year-olds ruled the earth, marching and pooping and playing tiny instruments poorly, the profile on their rippling flag would be of Sir Ronald McDonald.
In my home, no matter how long my chicken has marinated in Greek yogurt so as to give it a tang and texture like no other, unless it’s breaded and in the shape of a weird boot, the kid’s nose is turned up and away.
Along with McNuggets, the only other foods she allows past her prickly mouth are: fruit, buns with butter, milk, ketchup, anything with the word ‘cakes’ in it, cucumber and toast. That cauliflower I’ve just roasted with lemon and capers that has a crispy mouth feel with a tang and snap of salt? All mine. All those cauliflower farts to be emitted are mine and mine alone because she would rather set Doc McStuffins on fire than eat a nibble of my meals.
(I know cauliflower isn’t a great example – I don’t know how many kids readily clap and lick their lips about vegetables. Rest assured she hates everything I make in equal measure.)
Here’s the weird catch. At daycare she eats everything given to her. Date orange muffins. Tacos. Egg drop soup. Egg salad sandwiches.
So, it’s just me. She won’t eat my food. My great culinary efforts are not worth her time or taste buds. All that time I spend pinning child-friendly recipes could have been spent looking at gifs of people falling awkwardly. It’s frankly unfair.
Sound familiar? Your kid an adorable ingrate too? I tell you what; I’ll meet you in the 7-11 parking lot. I’ll be in the dirty Civic, with a greasy-faced happy kid and a fistful of napkins.
15 Comments
My family asked me what I want for my birthday last night (birthday is Monday) and I swear to crap I said “for no one to ask me what’s for dinner”.
Angela – you and me both, man. YOU & ME BOTH.
This is the lament of parents of picky eaters everywhere!
One day we may rise up and overthrow the evil Pied Piper of so-called food, Ronald McDonald!
Or we’ll hit drive-thru for the sixth night in a row.
It’s so hard to muster the energy to fight every day. EVERY DAY. (xo for the love!)
My kids are weird. My son asked me just yesterday when I’d make cauliflower again. Of course, the fact I smother it in cheese sauce may have something to do with it.
Liv – that is MAGICAL.
YES. My son eats EVERYTHING at daycare (or creche, as we hoity-toity Paris-dwellers say) and only hot dogs at home. WTF? Seriously, they served smoked salmon and pumpkin soup for Christmas lunch at the creche and he ate every last bite, and then he comes home and will only eat hot dogs. Well, good, because hot dogs only take 30 seconds to microwave. Meet you at 7-11 in 10?
There HAS to be something in the air at daycare. Or they slip something in their sippy cups. WHAT IS THEIR GODDAMN SECRET?
I’m pretty sure it’s 1 part peer pressure and 2 parts drugs in the sippy cups.
Yep, I make breaded chicken strips she turns up her nose. Chicken fingers from a box, she digs in. And yes, she eats for anyone else but me. I try to turn that around into a compliment, as in, she knows I’ll love her even if she refuses my meals. That works, right?
Liz – Moms are the best at spinning a situation. I love your take on this. 🙂
Clearly our children are related in some way. My 11 year old still curls his lip at chicken that actually resembles actual chicken. WTF? Although I will say he’s just as picky out in the world, but he didn’t — USED to be. He was like your daughter and ate stuff if someone else made it, but if I made it, and it didn’t have microwave directions prominently printed on it, it wasn’t passing his lips.
I don’t know if it makes you feel any better (it’s a little comforting to me) but I have read that Ruth Reichel’s son–the woman who was the NYT restaurant critic and editor in chief of Gourmet magazine–would eat two things: plain chicken, and plain noodles. Until he was like 18. If the woman who ran one of the most respected food magazines in the world couldn’t get her kid to eat anything but chicken and noodles for close to two decades, is there really hope for us? *sigh*
You know what – that makes me feel a million times better. Thank you Qwertygirl!
My son is an indiscriminate food snob. He doesn’t eat ANYTHING ANYONE gives him. I don’t know if I feel good or bad about that.
Sarah, that behaviour sounds very gauche. Which I *think* is a good thing.