In a way, we set ourselves up for the battle. I guess most parents set themselves up in some way or another from time to time, but we probably should have seen this one coming. You see, I think it would be safe to say that we are food snobs. Not in the sense that we require 8 course meals, or fancy French sauces, or go on and on about the SOURCE of the truffles, don’t you know dahling…No, we just like good food. It’s not a political agenda. Some things we eat organic. Carrots, for instance, taste better if you buy organic. Some things most definitely are not in any way on the good-for-you list, like Cheetos. I swear, if there were a black light for Cheeto dust, and you did an autopsy on me, my small intestine would light up like a glow worm, because I’m sure that stuff has the half life of nuclear waste and will be with me forever.
I’m totally neurotic about some things, like grinding my own meat. We lived in Germany when the mad cow scare first went public, and I learned that the best way to be sure there’s no spinal tissue in your hamburger is to watch it go through the grinder. It’s a simple solution to a scary problem. But I’m also a firm believer in the three second rule, in letting dogs lick the plates after a meal, and that raw cookie dough, eaten in the right quantities, will infer superpowers. I cook most things from scratch, but I love canned beans. Who has the forethought to soak that stuff the night before? And Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup WILL cure the common cold, most stomach ailments, and could contribute to world peace, if you add saltines and ginger ale.
But food snobs we are. As our boys progressed from ground Gerber Baby (now with Brussels Sprouts!) to real food, what we gave them was more likely to be bagels and lox (with capers, red onion, and tomato) or Chilequiles with cotija cheese and Tapatio hot sauce (you can see why it needs the hot sauce, can’t you, sweetie? Now open wide!) than Hamburger Helper. Not surprisingly when they hit first of the “you’re not the boss of me” stages of childhood, we ran into some snags. “But mom! You know I hate chicken cordon bleu!”, or “Not Paella again!” We reduced our palate, and served more innocent things, simple spaghettis and soups, extraordinary sandwiches, and semi-exotic rice dishes.
The power struggle raged on. My oldest, Propel, declared himself a Landatarian; he who had previously devoured smoked salmon. Sarsaparilla, the younger one, who as a toddler would ask for a cabbage when we got to the grocery store so he could pull of the leaves and snack on it as we shopped, suddenly became suspicious of vegetables. Battles ensued, and I became Weary. Because Propel has type 1 Diabetes, food has always been an issue in his life anyway. When does he eat? How much does he eat? Did the amount of carbohydrate match the insulin? And so on. Somehow the irrational fear that haunts mothers everywhere overcame me: that their children will STARVE, wither away and DIE, right there in front of their eyes! I began to prepare two separate meals, one for the boys, and one for the grownups. That became three, because the boys couldn’t agree either. And then I had HAD it. My husband, Reposado, had had it. And we engaged in what has become fondly known as The Great Chef Boyardee War of aught five.
It all came to a head one Friday night, when I had prepared a lovely French Onion soup, something everyone should have been able to enjoy. Since almost everything I cook (except butterscotch pudding) has onions and/or garlic in it, that shouldn’t have posed a problem. A nice rich beef broth, topped with toasted bread and melted cheese. What’s not to like? Apparently everything. The surly misters slumped to the table and proceeded to to dis every single thing on the menu. The soup was cold (because they had dawdled forever getting there), the bread was soggy, the cheese congealed. The salad was boring, the milk a bit off….
Reposado exploded. “If you kids can’t enjoy and appreciate good food” he thundered, “we can just heat up some slop for you instead!” The boys looked surprised, but nonplussed. Slop? What is this slop? “When I was growing up, nobody cooked for me, and we ate from CANS!” he shouted. “CANS and BOXES!”
“Tomorrow, we are going shopping, and you will see a whole new kind of food!” I work a lot of weekends, so true to his word, he took them to the grocery store and they went down aisles they had never seen before. They came home with Spaghettios, Stagg Chili, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Chef Boyardee Ravioli, Tuna Helper and Velveeta Mac and Cheese. He explained to them how instant oatmeal worked, and forbade them making anything fresh. (Even at that age they could make a grilled cheddar on sourdough with whole grain mustard). Three meals a day, all weekend long, they ate packaged/ processed food. Open can, pour into pan. No slicing, no dicing, no seasoning, just heating. Their school lunches were filled with processed food: bologna instead of sliced ham on the sandwich. Applesauce instead of apple slices. Monday night, we ate Chunky Soup on Rice. Tuesday evening, Propel, the Landatarian , sees Reposado getting out the can of Beef Stew, and very humbly asks, “Dad, do you think we could have blackened catfish instead?”
That my friend, is when we knew we’d won. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with Spaghettios, if that’s your cup of tea. But if you’ve grown up eating pasta al dente with homemade pesto, that mush is gonna taste as wrong to you as ham on Chanukah. Still, we kept that can of Beef Stew around for a good six months. Just in case.
Dry Gin Martini, MD, with Châteauneuf-du-Pape for the main course, please.
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