I've written before about how my children (at least Jacob and Elizabeth) are terribly picky eaters. I'm sure we've made that worse by indulging it. I mean, if we were consistent about just saying "Tortellini with Spinach and Prosciutto for dinner! Take it or leave it!" and refused to make the grilled cheese sandwich, EVENTUALLY they'd start eating the tortellini, wouldn't they? Well, most of the time I take the eating issues in stride, but every once in a while I get frustrated. Like the other night, when I made some oven-fried potatoes with salt. Just salt. No green flecks. No pepper. Potatoes and salt. Okay, and a little olive oil to brown them.
Jacob: What are these?
Mom: They are french fries.
Jacob: Are they like zoo french fries?
Mom: (frantically trying to remember whether zoo french fries are a good thing or a bad thing): No, they're better than zoo french fries.
Jacob: Hmmm. I don't think so. They look funny.
Mom: Jacob! I just tasted these! They are DELICIOUS! Dip them in some ketchup. You need to eat what I cook! I am a GOOD COOK! People tell me that I am a good cook!
Oooooooh. A name. You want me to give you a name. The pressure . . . of a name. (okay movie buffs, name that flick!) I think I meekly answered: "Daddy? Grandma?" and he said "well, you're not a famous cook!" Ah, there's my problem! Apparently only famous cooks can get their kids to eat dinner! I tell you, if it weren't for Caroline, my ego would be in tatters right now. That child wolfed down some adult-sized portions of Butternut Squash Lasagna and then started waving her arms around and saying "muh muh muh" (I think that's "more.") There you go! Caroline thinks I'm a good cook! Of course, she also eats leaves and paper, so her standards are pretty low.