Veggie Tales

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Dinnertime. A part of my day that I have come to simultaneously anticipate and dread. On the one hand, I love the image I have created in my mind of the four of us gathered around the table, trading accounts of our day. R smiles and asks if someone can please pass the steamed carrots. J compliments the seasoning on the tilapia, and the baby coos sweetly from her high chair and patiently waits for a refill of her sippy cup. Norman Rockwell took his inspiration from my vision of the perfect family dinner. Unfortunately, when humans replace paint strokes, things have a way of turning out differently.

First, there is the dilemma of what to fix. The tastes in our household are varied. I love foods of different colors. Fajitas with red, yellow, and green peppers, salads with tomatoes, avocados, and feta cheese, broccoli in my soup, and blueberries in my oatmeal. At least two of the people in my house seem to be going through a yellow, brown, and white phase, meaning if it isn’t one of those three colors, you can forget about it. J prefers meat at every meal, while I would be happy with the occasional piece of turkey or chicken. The sight of raw hamburger makes me want to gag, but I love seafood, which J has never developed a taste for. As I survey the refrigerator each night, I get a glimpse into what it must be like to be the leader of the free world. The balance of world peace lies in this one decision. Once made, some will be overjoyed, and others will revolt.

I refuse to make multiple meals to appease the masses. In the short term, this would probably be a viable solution, but do I really want to live the rest of my existence as a short-order chef? Instead, we have established some rules for dinnertime:

1.     No one has to eat anything they don’t like for dinner. If you don’t like dinner, breakfast is in 12 hours.

2.     If you don’t take at least one bite of everything on your plate, and eat a pre-determined number of vegetables, don’t ask for an after-dinner treat. If you’re hungry enough for cookies, you’re hungry enough to eat your asparagus.

3.     If you whine, cry or disrupt other people’s dinner, you will be asked to leave the table. (My husband has only had to leave the table once on fish night.)

4.     If you choose not to eat, you will remain at the table until the family is finished eating. (I’m going to have my Rockwell moment, dammit!)

On a positive note, my son has become a master negotiator. He’ll see your three bites of peas and raise you two graham crackers. (Maybe someday when he’s a government diplomat, he will recount the many dinners of his childhood and dedicate his memoirs to me.)

A couple of weeks ago, my mom served broccoli for dinner at her house. R solemnly announced to her that he only eats the “hairy” pieces. Confused, she finally realized that he prefers the tops of the broccoli and not the stems.

Another time, after I referred him to Rule #2, he wailed, “But I’m only hungry for things that aren’t good for me!”

K has recently decided to get in on the fun. I noticed the other day that she was methodically picking through the pieces of food that were not to her liking and throwing them off of her tray. I said her name (in a stern tone) and shook my head no. She looked at me, grabbed another handful, chucked it off the high chair and shook her head right back. How do I argue with that?

While art history books praise Old Norm’s (can I call him Old Norm?) portrayal of realistic images of family life, I have my doubts. For example, none of his paintings depict whining children shooting peas out of their nostrils and smearing ranch dressing in their brother’s hair. The mother is always smiling, while the father looks adoringly upon his well-behaved brood. The vegetables in the middle of the table are described as “nature’s bounty,” not as “eewy,” and no one appears to be banging an empty sippy cup against their head. The white tablecloth is spotless, as if it hasn’t been sitting in that morning’s spilled cranberry juice for 8 hours. I just don’t buy it.