Food

Apparently no one likes my cooking.

Well, I take that back....no one under the age of 11 likes it.

This is a typical evening. I'm sauteeing chicken in the pan and rowdy son walks into the kitchen (which I, by the way, think smells divine). He wrinkles his nose. "What's that?", he grimaces. I say, "Lemon tarragon chicken" proudly. "I'll pass on that" he says, as he exits quickly.

Well, he doesn't get to pass. Nope, I put all the food on his plate. Including veggies. And I insist he try it. He's so miserable and telling me all the time that "you know I hate chicken". I say, "Eat your veggies". He insists, 'You know I hate broccoli". I say, "Drink your milk" and he says, "Can I have a root beer?"

By now there is a little tension in the air. Sweet daughter also doesn't like my food, but she isn't vocal about it. She just pushes it around on her plate and eats a lot of rolls. They all like rolls. I don't make the rolls...those someone ELSE makes. I start to get a little defensive. I turn to mr. herewegoagain and say, "He doesn't like chicken, he doesn't like casseroles, he doesn't like tuna fish, he doesn't even like peanut butter". Mr. herewegoagain looks at rowdy son and says, "What DO you like?"

"Steak".

Oh, well, that's the answer. Just a ribeye every night and he'll be happy. Why didn't I think of that? When I was his age, I'm pretty sure I didn't even know what steak was. My dad used to eat steak while we had tacos because he was on a "protein diet". And on fried chicken night, he used to ask in a sing-song voice..."Who wants the chicken neck? It's got the sweetest meat". Yeah, I didn't exactly know what steak was, but how many people can really, truly say that they have had a fried chicken neck?

I'm holding up my hand.

And I wasn't born during the depression either! So why WAS my mom frying the neck anyway? Just for the record, I'm not sure if the meat is sweeter, but I will tell you that there are 17 million little bones in a chicken neck. If nothing else, feeding your child a chicken neck will keep her quiet throughout the meal as she picks each and every bone out of her teeth.

My mother was an indifferent cook. There was never "Lemon tarragon chicken" (all white meat I might add...no necks) on the menu. She often would throw everything that was in the fridge into a kind of stew and cook it all day. Sometimes it was tasty. Often it was NOT. I remember getting a sandwich in my lunch at school that was tiny chopped olives mixed with mayonaise. I wonder what cookbook suggested THAT would be a hit with the cafeteria crowd.

She also liked to add (sneak in) horrible things like wheat germ and protein powder and fish oil and whatever trendy nutritional additive was on the talk shows that week. This was in the 70's, and Adelle Davis was still alive and eating tree bark. My mom, in her macrame belts, fake eye-lashes and hip-huggers, was a firm believer in health food stores and we got the full benefit. She used to whip up "energy drinks" for us before swim meets and watch anxiously as we tried to get them down (anything to win a ribbon). Usually they would have been helpful to wrestlers trying to make weight, if you know what I mean, but sometimes they were really good. We would say, "Mom! This one is good! Make it THIS way from now on", and she would shrug and say, "I don't remember what I put in that one". Oh well.

So, when my son turns up his nose at chicken, I think I might just add a little protein powder to his pancakes. Because, did I mention?...he does like those. Pancakes and steak and he's a happy camper. With a little root beer on the side.