The Cliffs Of Despair: A Cook's Lament

I place my cast iron dutch oven on the stove and set the burner to a medium-low heat.  A nice slosh of olive oil (I will NEVER say EVOO, sorry) follows, accompanied by a handful of perfectly minced onion and garlic.  I let this saute for a moment, then add a diced, roasted red pepper (roasted in my own oven, 500 degrees, 10 minutes), a bay leaf from my own bay tree growing by the front porch, and sliced crimini mushrooms.  As it simmers, a wonderful aroma fills my kitchen, along with a little surge of happiness and pride at knowing this meal is made with some serious skill.  I am a good cook, and I know it.  Homemade chicken stock follows, cream, and diced chicken from last night's dinner -- I thought ahead and roasted two chickens so I would have some for tonight (2 free range chickens stuffed with lemons and onions, basted with wild honey, olive oil, and fresh lemon juice).  It all goes into the pot. A sprinkle of imported sea salt and a few twists of the pepper grinder finish the dish. The aroma would bring my dead grandma out of her grave just for a taste.  I have skill, oh yeah.

"What is that disgusting smell?!"  This is followed by actual sounds of actual gagging.

And this is where my day dream ends.  Jonathan, age 9, stands there, hand over his mouth.  I know what he is referring to, but one last little pathetic string of hope holds on.

"I don't know," I say.  "All I can smell is dinner and I think it smells wonderful!"

He inches a bit closer, nose uncovered by mere millimeters.  He takes a sniff.  "YUCK! It's whatever is in that pot!" This is followed by more gagging.

Really?

I mean, really?  But I should have expected it.  I should have.  I blame William, my 19 year-old son. It's not nice to point fingers, especially at your own children.  But too bad.  He started it.

Let's get in the Way Back Machine.  The year is 1994.  It was spring.  We lived in Houston, Texas in a tiny apartment.  At that time, I had two adorable children, a girl and a boy.  (Incidentally, why on God's green earth do people think it's ok to say things to young moms like, "Oh you're so lucky.  You got your girl and boy first try! Because everyone knows children are like a set of china and the goal is to complete the set? Sheesh.  Anyway.) I was, even then, a good cook.  I am not a picky eater.  My husband is not a picky eater. My daughter is not a picky eater.  And up till then, William would eat anything and in huge quantities.  He was 2 and had the most infectious and amazing grin.  You know I'm going to add a photo now, don't you ;D

I had made a batch of walnut chocolate chip cookies.  Of all the things I can make, chocolate chip cookies are the top of list.  Seriously, I brought them to a church meeting once and one man nearly broke down and cried after two bites.  He ate most the rest of them and didn't take a single note from the meeting.  They are that good.

William sat at the table, in his little blue and red booster seat, chubby little rounded legs sticking out, singing some happy song in 2 year-old language about eating cookies.  You have to remember and treasure moments like these to combat the upcoming days when they're a foot taller than you, smell like something 3 weeks past the sell-by date, and only speak in the universal teenage boy language known as GruntMumble.  I should write a lexicon on that . . . hmm.  Project for another time.

The happy babble stopped suddenly.  I turned to look at him, wondering what had happened.  He sat, holding one hand in front of him, staring at whatever he was holding in that hand.

"dewza nuh ib mekughy!"

I should mention that William was not a very clear speaker.  Ahem.

What he said was, "There's a nut in my cookie!"  And he held the offending item out for me to see.  Sure enough, in the 3/4 chewed mouthful of cookie he had removed from his mouth, there was a nut.  There were always nuts.  I made a POINT of adding things like nuts so that my kids would not be picky eaters! I grew up with a whole rabble of siblings who were picky eaters and MY KIDS WOULD NOT BE LIKE THAT!  Or so I thought.

He held it out as though I had put a chunk of arsenic in his cookie, complete with all the moral outrage a toddler can muster -- which is actually quite a lot.  And it was all down hill from there.  After nuts, peas were banned.  Then sweet potatoes.  Then anything green.  Then mixing ingredients (read: casseroles).  Then sauces of any kind. 

What I did not know then, was that William's pickyness would not even hold a candle to Jonathan's.  We refer to Jonathan's diet as the "white diet." This is not an ethnic reference of any kind.  It is a color reference.  At one point, Jonathan's entire accepted menu consisted of: plain white rice, plain pasta, toast, vanilla ice cream. Um.  That's it.  The one exception to the color requirement was Chocolate Milk.  It deserves the caps.

Chocolate milk (aka: gokgik mok, choca mok, chocolit milkie -- we remember all the variations as Chocolate Milk has been like a 9th family member in our house) is the Holy Grail of Jonathan's diet. Truly, and it pains me to say this (not really), he's an addict.  He's whined for chocolate milk while actually holding a glass of chocolate milk.  When he's falling to pieces in great, sobbing waves of grief (because I put the right lego hand in the left lego arm on his lego guy.  Did you know lego guys have rights and lefts?  You do now.) all I have to say is, "Would you like some chocolate milk?" And the sobs stop.

We negotiate every meal.  No chocolate milk until you eat three beans, 4 pieces of chicken, and all your  noodles.  This takes 2.7 hours.

As Hercules said, "WHAT'S THE POINT!?" I mean really! Why bother with beautiful, perfectly cooked culinary masterpieces when it will all go down the garbage disposal in favor of a hot dog and a box of day-glo orange mac-n-cheese?!

The answer came when William was about 14.  I had made spaghetti.  This is our fall back meal.  Everyone will eat spaghetti in some form: Jeff, Alex, Jacob = sauce on the side. Me, Lauren, William = sauce on top.  Jonathan = no sauce, don't even mention sauce, please stop crying, I promise you don't have to eat sauce.  Matthew = 4 large helpings with lots of sauce all mixed in and all chopped up in one inch pieces because he WILL feed himself.

Because it was a Sunday dinner, I had also added a salad and a loaf of french bread.  Instead of making garlic toast, I opted for goat cheese to spread on the slices.  The kids could lump it, I wanted something I liked.  William, the one who started it all, was willing to try it.  Jeff and I sat, mouths hanging open, as William, all on his very own, picked up a slice of bread and spread some goat cheese on it.  Delight dawned on his face.  "This is good!"  He ate the whole container of goat cheese and nearly all the bread.

Goat cheese.  GOAT CHEESE?!  This was the answer to the picky problem?  Eh, whatever works.  The ravenous pangs of sure starvation suffered by every teen boy at every moment of every passing day will conquer the Cliffs of Despair (like the ones in Princess Bride) in the land of Picky.  And that means . . . I CAN COOK AGAIN!!