I realized the other day that perhaps my flair in the kitchen has taken a nosedive, and I don't doubt that it's the inevitable result of the "customers" that take up residence at the table. My house is basically a humorous short-order diner that serves wee little patrons with finicky appetites and anger management issues. All this is well and good as my former weekend gig as a bar wench in Boston has me well-equipped for this kind of madness and drink-throwing, but despite my endearing nostalgia for drunk Irish guys (we all love 'em), I can't shake the conviction that we really are what we eat, and eventually all four of us will turn into semi-burned chicken nuggets and buttered noodles. Not a picture the in-laws would appreciate on next year's Christmas cards, mind you.
When I had my first baby I swore up and down that I would try to be one of those moms they feature in those do-gooder parenting magazines that make you feel like you suck at your job if you don't make cute animal-shaped carrot shavings (with little grape feet and peas for eyes) with lunch. Disregarding the ungodly amount of time and patience those things would require (either of which I would sell a kidney for nowadays), I still aspire to feed my family the good stuff. I ATTEMPT to do so. I think a lot of parents do. And I still make an effort now and again to weasel a few chunks of some fetid organic thing into the mac and cheese, when I'm feeling especially sprightly. This is the same woman who, in pre-baby times, planned an elaborate Valentine's Day dinner for my (now) husband featuring a reduced sauce cooked over many hours, hand-julienned vegetables and big ol' sea scallops fashioned into heart shapes. Seriously.
When I had my first baby I swore up and down that I would try to be one of those moms they feature in those do-gooder parenting magazines that make you feel like you suck at your job if you don't make cute animal-shaped carrot shavings (with little grape feet and peas for eyes) with lunch. Disregarding the ungodly amount of time and patience those things would require (either of which I would sell a kidney for nowadays), I still aspire to feed my family the good stuff. I ATTEMPT to do so. I think a lot of parents do. And I still make an effort now and again to weasel a few chunks of some fetid organic thing into the mac and cheese, when I'm feeling especially sprightly. This is the same woman who, in pre-baby times, planned an elaborate Valentine's Day dinner for my (now) husband featuring a reduced sauce cooked over many hours, hand-julienned vegetables and big ol' sea scallops fashioned into heart shapes. Seriously.
And I actually still enjoy cooking....well, here I should specify WITHOUT at least one kid clinging to my pant leg, moaning wistfully, and another rummaging through the utensil drawer for a cheese grater to drag over his brother's forehead like a monkey with a paintbrush. Somehow (and stop me if this sounds crazy), all this action underfoot makes it a little difficult to swing several gallons of boiling hot pasta water from the stove over to the sink. It certainly makes it all the more dreadful an experience as far as creating something, as opposed to throwing together as much of the food pyramid as you can, topped, of course, with ketchup. And yes, it counts as a vegetable. Maybe a fruit, too, if you consider that whole "tomato" argument. (Which is so silly. Any well-informed food critic who's had a Bloody Mary will tell you, with the utmost certainty, that they don't give a rat's ass one way or another. Generally this happens after consumption of said beverage, sized large.)
At the risk of earning a rep as Sloth Mom of the Year (or just simply sounding bitter), I would like to admit that I do indeed take shortcuts preparing my kids' food sometimes. I give them chicken nuggets with lunch. They get chocolate Teddy Grahams for a snack, on occasion. And holy hell, if I could count the times my one year-old has vacuumed stray Cheerios off the floor with his mouth...
But come on, people. All of you who are responsible for feeding your darling rugrats. All of you who, like myself, actually do go out of their way to include a good spread of healthy stuff, and who absolutely do care about their kid's health. All of you who have to prioritize what time they have during the day, sometimes at the expense of the "little things." And especially those of you who've faced the onslaught of the Munchie Police, who cause you to question whether you're being a good enough parent judged solely on the quality of your kid's snacks. You, above all, should copy and print the following paragraph to thrust at the vegan clown that gives you the stink eye next time you're at Chick Fil 'A at the mall:
IT IS REALLY NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS HOW I RAISE MY CHILDREN. THEY ARE HEALTHY, HAPPY AND LOVED. I WILL FEED THEM HOW I SEE FIT. IF YOU INSIST ON BEING A MEDDLESOME CRANKPOT, PLEASE GO HOME TO INDULGE IN SOME DR. PHIL AND SPY ON YOUR NEIGHBORS THROUGH THE
LITTLE CRACK BETWEEN THEIR BLINDS AND WINDOW FRAME.
THANK YOU.
As chef Anthony Bourdain said, "[y]ou will need a pure heart, and a soul, meaning you are cooking for the right reasons...You need love...Hopefully it's love for the people you're cooking for, because the greatest and most memorable meals are as much about who you ate with as they are about what you ate." So yeah. I don't really mind that my cooking fantasies will have to wait. I get to share my food with some of the best dinner dates around: a pair of loud, messy, and happily stuffed little boys, and hopefully, these are the memories we'll all keep for years (provided there are no cheese graters involved). :)
