“Why did you give me kiwi in my lunchbox?” “Because kiwis are delicious and full of nutrients.”
“But I don’t like kiwi.”
“Well, you used to like kiwi.”
“But now I don’t. I told you that the last time, don’t you remember?”
I allowed that it was possible that the child had told me the last time, but I certainly didn’t remember and, to be honest, I wasn’t very fussed about it. If I took the trouble to retain the minute details of every member of the family’s preferred diet I would have no space left in my gray matter to store other useful facts, such as how to cook the asparagus risotto for which I was assembling ingredients.
“Yummy! Risotto!” said another child, seeing what was up.
“Is the asparagus obligatory?” said the first, making a grossed-out face.
“Yes. Into every life a little asparagus must fall,” said the heartless cook.
Lest you think the H.C. is actually a softie and pushover in letting her children make sharp remarks (and grossed-out faces), please know that I include a great many unappetizingly healthful foodstuffs in my repertoire. Not only do I want my children and husband to eat well, but I want to eat well, too.
Having said that, over the years I’ve tried as much as possible to cater to the general palate because I remember what it was like, having to choke down terrible grown-up meals when I was small.
I have dark memories of staring down platefuls of what our family now calls “ghastly mung,” squishy foods such as eggplant parmigiano or vegetable stew. Naturally, I am happy to serve such foods today, but my horror at the time has given me an abiding sympathy for the kiwi- and asparagus-averse. If it doesn’t compromise a meal to cut a child some occasional dietary slack, I like to do it.
I never make vegetable stew without remembering the coruscating story a friend once told, of her efforts to please her finicky, then-teenaged son. He was the woman’s only child — still is — and after a baseball stadium hotdog he was no longer a fan of meat.
One day she spent all afternoon chopping and roasting heaps of vegetables, and then simmering them into a special rich broth for him.
He came into the kitchen after school, to see what was doing.
“Voila!” she said, taking the pot lid off. Steam wreathed the boy’s face as he leaned over to see the soup.
“Is there meat in it?” he wondered.
“Of course not! It’s all vegetables, just as you like,” his mother said. She added, “And it took me all day.”
“Thanks, but — Mom, I’m not a vegetarian anymore.”
“What do you mean you’re not a vegetarian anymore?”
“I told you. Remember, two days ago?”
She had not remembered. She had spent the entire afternoon on the darned soup. She felt chagrined and absurd — but the next moment, she felt wonderful.
“Mom,” the young man said expansively, “The soup smells great. Thanks for making it. Any chance we have meat to go with it?”
Her heart having melted at the “thanks for making it,” she beamed. Her son wanted meat with his five-hour vegetable soup? Why, then, he would have it.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
