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.