The Finicky Files Flip Open

I used to be a city mom. I used to live in the heart of Chicago, in a tiny condo surrounded by McMansions and nanny-ed young ones. At the time I had just one child, who grew into a solids-eating toddler while we lived a life of walking to the park or the lake or hopping on the L to see sights. During these halcyon days, my daughter ate a broad variety of things, regularly feasting on such international delicacies as pot stickers and falafel.

Gradually, however, things started to tarnish. As she grew, our space shrank, which was particularly problematic in the sub-zero temperatures of winter (a season that encompasses far too many months in Chicago, at least for this San Diego native). My husband’s hours as a consultant climbed into the sleep-deprived numbers, and consequently meals as a family were virtually nonexistent. Opting for time with my husband, this meant that I would feed Clare a separate dinner, and gradually the repertoire of things I served her diminished. She began to refuse things, and I didn’t press the issue. Before I knew it, she was two, and although her personality was sparkling, her eating habits were indeed terrible.

Three years later, I live in suburban Atlanta, which frankly suits my convention-loving self quite well. For example, I love that I can drive my minivan right into the garage of my fairly large house. I also love that I am surrounded by young families and am almost never at a loss for a play date for either of my (now two) children. That eating thing, though, hasn’t gotten any better. Clare’s list of acceptable food has only narrowed. In particular, she refuses to eat any meat other than chicken nuggets and hot dogs, and would prefer to subsist on fruits, vegetables, and bread or crackers. And Danny, my sweet, two-year-old son, loves his meat and potatoes but refuses even a long-distance phone call from a vegetable. You can imagine how daunting it is to even enter the kitchen - which is too bad, because it’s really lovely and spacious, especially as compared to what passed for a kitchen in our condo.

Having consulted my pediatrician, a dietitian, books, the Internet, grandparents, and fellow moms, I’m afraid I do have to keep going into the kitchen. (How much do I hate that whole if you at first you don t succeed saying?) My kids are not going to resolve their problematic eating habits if I don t give them the proper tools to do so. Which means I need inspiration to keep presenting them with a variety of nutrient-laden food. Enter mairecipes.com. I figure I’ll use the website to try new menus, which really does get me excited about cooking and eating. Hopefully my enthusiasm will be infectious.

For my inaugural post, some might say I copped out with my recipe choice: zucchini bread. Which, sure, I kind of did. What’s not to love about sweet, breakfast- or snack-related bread, right? There is a bit of a catch with this one, though. A while back I tried a zucchini bread recipe from Cooking Light. This is a resource I am typically a big fan of, but I must say their baked goods generally leave something to be desired. Like their zucchini bread. Clare didn’t care for it one bit, and frankly neither did I. (I’m not sure Danny was even alive at the time, and if he was, he wasn’t consuming solids.)

Fast-forward to yesterday, when I mentioned to Clare that I was going to bake zucchini bread. She raised her eyebrows (because yes, she remembered that failed version), but said nothing. This morning when I offered her a piece, she graciously accepted and ate the whole piece. When I offered Danny a piece, he immediately refused, which I found funny because he has no idea what a zucchini even is. Apparently he has veggie radar. That said, when I put a piece in front of him anyway, he gobbled it up.

Am I buoyed by my success? Not exactly. But I am cautiously optimistic. And if all else fails, in 16 years they will both be out of my house, and off my meal plan.

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