By David Minsky
By Jen Mangham
By Bill Wisser
By Laine Doss
By Bill Wisser
By Dana De Greff
By Laine Doss
By Zachary Fagenson
I will always remember the outraged response I received from an acquaintance when I blithely confessed that my daughter won't eat, among a shopping list of other items, anything green (unless it is a "wild watermelon" gelatin dessert or the squiggly neon noodles that Kraft has started to add to the ubiquitous, boxed mac-n-cheez). "What?" she exploded. "You should be ashamed of yourself! If I were you, I'd sit her down with a plate of broccoli and not let her leave the table until she finished it." She added dramatically, "Even if it took days."
Aside from the fact that I'm really just as lazy a mother as a housekeeper -- in other words, to enforce certain standards, you have to sacrifice a lot of your own time better spent popping champagne corks -- I've never been fond of Gestapo-enforced dining. Children might still be starving in China, but forcing Zoe to swallow string beans isn't going to help them. I'd rather just send them the money directly than by taking pennies out of her flesh (or putting pounds on it).
It's not that I don't want her to be well rounded, at least as it concerns her food choices. But power struggles at the dinner table are the quick route to a healthy eating disorder. Nor am I a fan of current tactics espoused by parenting magazines, which are along the lines of disguising vegetables in hopes that the kids won't figure out they're being duped into tasting asparagus before they can unequivocally say they don't like it. Sorry, but my offspring, as you might imagine, are more suspicious than that.
At the moment, my strategy is more passive. I'm waiting for the time in every girl's young life when she realizes that she wants to be just like her mommy, peas, carrots, and all. That is to say, I'm waiting for her to grow out of it. After all when I was her age, I was beyond picky. My diet consisted of scrambled eggs and Spaghettios. When we took road trips, my mother had to pack the only brand of apple juice my pristine little lips would deign to touch. I also have very clear memories of food-related events that drove my mother, a good cook in ways both traditional and inventive, absolutely bonkers, such as the day when she decided, bless her, to make corned beef from scratch. I spent the afternoon hiding outdoors in 30-degree weather simply because I couldn't stand the smell. Or the time in Maine when everybody else ordered lobster and I was too revolted to do more than will myself not to vomit on the table. And here I am now, though I'm still not fond of corned beef.
Plan B is exposure. Kids don't become readers because you tell them books are fun. They learn more willingly when surrounded by the written word and see their parents enjoying it. Which is why I have dishes and platters with vegetable motifs on them in my cupboards and paintings of exotic fruit on my walls. I may pray to false idols, but at least they represent important building blocks.
Another method, if you have stubborn eaters, is to take them to restaurants where they can glimpse other foods and cultures, even if they press their lips together in denial of any foreign substance unrelated to pizza. I like to torture Zoe at Cuban restaurants because she is fond of black beans and rice (as is nearly every child born in Miami, regardless of ethnic background). So I know she'll eat something. But at the same time, she'll be witness to the rest of us enjoying dishes that simply horrify her -- like, say, white bean soup. To her rigid, reverse-discriminating palate, if beans aren't black, they don't exist.
Field trips also have value. Last year I dragged both kids down to the family farms in the Redland and Homestead areas for organic produce every other weekend. They never appreciated the rather lengthy drive, but they always loved the reward -- cinnamon rolls and strawberry milkshakes from Knaus Berry Farm, where I would stop for gigantic bell peppers and field lettuce.
The latest tactic in the battle of "if you're not going to taste it, at least look at it" is taking the kids to the Miami Children's Museum (MCM). The culinary education there is understated in some exhibits, palpable in others. For instance at the "emergency room" station, a sign reads: "You've broken your arm. Should you panic? Go to the ER? Eat a salami sandwich?" The answer, of course, is go to the ER. But the instructions also advise that "You can always bring the salami sandwich with you."
On the other hand, there's nothing subtle about the miniature, plasticized Publix. The shopping baskets are stacked and waiting to be filled from the various stations, all of which echo the cultural diversity of Miami. At the produce counter, for example, kids can fondle everything from realistically reproduced cauliflower to yuca. Canned products are more Goya than Green Giant. The deli case holds chorizo and sliced American cheese; fish include whole red snapper as well as sardines, which are "packaged" with cut lemon; bakery sweets range from flan to Danish.