The Dinner Files

I’m having another Minnesota summer. I love how my eyes relax here – it just feels so good to look at all the shades of green everywhere. I spent most of the last week in Minneapolis, meeting my brand new nephew (who could try to be cuter, I suppose, but it’s difficult to imagine how he would succeed) and seeing other family and friends. I also had a chance to check out some farmers markets in the Twin Cities – there is a real local foods scene in these parts that is all the more impressive by how trying much of the year is.

There is plenty to love about Minneapolis, especially in the summer. It is beautiful, there are lakes and rivers everywhere you look, the skyline is stunning, the Mississippi riverfront is revived, there is plenty of art and theater, the state now has two (count ‘em, two!) senators, and the city is just full of people who are drunk on the warm weather and frolicking accordingly. I’ve written here about the wonder that is Jasmine Deli before (the first day we were here Ernest asked “Mama, can we go to the Jas?”), some new delights I discovered on this latest visit:

Brasa Rotisserie. Roasted meats and sides like creamed spinach with jalapeno with a super-cas atmosphere and generous portions that make the reasonable prices seem almost criminal

Mill City Market. I went to the St. Paul Farmers Market too, but I really dug Mill City. It’s in downtown Minneapolis, between the new Guthrie Theater (worth a visit its own self) and the Mill City Museum (ditto) right on the Mississippi riverfront at St. Anthony Falls (again – go, visit, enjoy!). Tons of vendors selling a great range of stuff – including a place selling grain and home flour mills! How cool is that? Also a food truck called “Chef Shack” dishing out all kinds of deliciousness including “Indian spiced mini doughnuts” that were crave-inducing. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it I’d like some right now….

Izzy’s Ice Cream. I don’t care about their “Izzy’s Scoop” which is a mini scoop you can have them put on your cone. But I fell in love with the cake batter ice cream. It tastes just like very cold golden cake batter – it even has that almost chewy texture of raw cake batter. Brilliant.

Clancy’s Butcher in Linden Hills. Okay. I knew aboand have shopped at Clancy’s before. But I just have to give them a shout-out. Coming in from a state where a butcher (a bucher! the shame!) once told me that “bratwurst and knockwurst are the same” it is a delight to go to a fabulous neighborhood butcher and find there some amazingly perfect bratwurst in the case. Spicy, tender, perfect bratwurst. The kind that haunt a Midwesterner’s California dreams.

I am burying the lede. I forgot to take a picture of the lede. The lede should be (and in life was) the rib-eye steaks from our meat CSA. I defrosted a pair – they were cut a bit thin and I was worried they would cook up ill, but they were delicious simply grilled over a hot flame for 5 minutes on each side having only been lightly drizzled with a bit of oil and salted fairly liberally a moment before being laid ever-so-gently on the piping hot grill grate. I was so excited to eat them that picture-taking was the last thing on my mind as I sliced them diagonally and dabbed them with a garlic compound butter.

I served them to my dashing husband and young Ernest along with some grilled potatoes (with more of the butter slathered onto those, you can be sure) and the salad you see above. It was all very summery and satisfying. It was my last dinner in San Francisco for awhile. Ernest and I are headed to Northern Minnesota for a nice long stay again this summer. What draws us there? Well I could go on and on about the clear lake water for swimming and the extended family for fun and the walleye pike for eating but let me sum it up thusly: the living is easy and the child care is cheap.

I’ve been sick. Really quite sick. In bed for six days sick. It’s a been a bit of a bummer to say the least. I hadn’t eaten anything other than jello, crackers, broth, and popscicles since last Tuesday. Luckily, my mother-in-law was scheduled to come for a visit this weekend anyway. She did laundry and entertained Ernest and quick-set jello. And then last night she fried up some chicken cutlets.

They drew me down from bed and tempted me to eat an actual meal. I’m up and about today. Coincidence? Perhaps. But these cutlets have worked their magic in the past: they have aided many a recovery from long and painful flights across the country to visit her in New York, they fortified me after I had my son, they cheered me up when I broke my hand last spring.

Recovering from the flu? Had a baby? Need a little pick-me-up? Try the magic of chicken cutlets. In the words of my mother-in-law, “they couldn’t be easier.”

Thinly slice 1 1/2 lbs. chicken breast (or, have your butcher cut them for you – that’s what my mother-in-law does!). Whisk 2 eggs in a medium bowl and spread about 2 cups bread crumbs in  a wide shallow bowl or rimmed plate.

Dip each chicken piece in the egg mixture, then dredge the chicken in the bread crumbs. Use one hand to touch wet things and the other hand to touch dry things to keep things as clean adn easy as possible. Dip and dredge all chicken pieces, laying them on a large plate or baking sheet when you finish them. [Note: Some people, including me, like to dredge the chicken in a mixture of flour, salt, and pepper before dipping it in the egg. My mother-in-law skips this step and her cutlets are better than mine.]

Heat a frying pan over medium-high heat and add enough vegetable oil to make a 1/4-inch layer in the pan. When the oil is hot, add several chicken cutlets – you want to fill the pan but not have any cutlets overlap. Fry until browned on one side. Turn cutlets over and fry until brown on the other side. Remove and drain on several layers of paper towels. Repeat with remaining cutlets.

Sprinkle with salt to taste. Serve cutlets hot, warm, or even at room temperature, with a squirt of lemon is you’re so inclined (my mother-in-law is not so inclined). These cutlets are most delicious with a crisp green salad with a French-style vinaigrette or old-school Italian dressing.

Oh. My. I love this stuff. I made it last weekend and have now perfected it. I wanted a really buttermilk-y one. Tangy, almost lemony. And a bit light on the texture front – creamy but not super-rich. And this was it. It almost tasted like cheesecake, in a good way. It’s perfect with berries – particularly blackberries. I posted the recipe for Buttermilk Ice Cream at Local Foods, but it’s pretty straight-forward: bring a cup of cream to a boil, whisk together 6 egg yolks and 3/4 cup sugar in a medium bowl, drizzle hot cream in while whisking, return to pot and cook (stirring) over medium-low heat until it thickens, take off heat, stir in 2 cups buttermilk, let cool, freeze in an ice cream maker.

Let summer begin!

Yes, those are reproductions of paintings by the mid-century Swedish abstract painter Olle Baertling (whose work, oddly enough, we saw in Marfa, Texas when we were there this spring)  being marched through the picturesque hills of the Marin Headlands just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, why do you ask?

On Sunday my family went on a hike. It ended up being a much longer hike than my dashing husband had prepared us for, but true to form, Ernest champed out (only after having one complete breakdown about 10 minutes into the proceedings that, upon investigation, was caused by a bur in his sock). Let’s just say I was expecting that we might need to go on a hike after the “art hike” to get some exercise. Perhaps we’d take Ernest down to Rodeo Beach to run around for a bit. I invited my Very Tall Cousin Sam and his girlfriend to join us, knowing they were interested in seeing the Headlands, and was worried that they would feel ripped off.

No need. Everyone felt good and exposed to the Headlands, all thighs were well and worked, all energy was used and gone. It wasn’t just the hike. The hike also involved carrying the signs, the placards, the paintings – it doesn’t matter what you call them, they seemed carry-able enough when we first picked them up, but even plywood gets heavy after five miles of steep terrain and even well-sanded wood stakes start to rub delicate writer hands the wrong way after two hours.

We were hiking for art. We were part of a performance piece and eventual film by Jacob Dahlgren. We suffered for art. My hands are still stiff, my shoulder is bruised, and my neck is burned because – wouldn’t you know it – it was an amazingly beautiful day. The views were like this:

Yeah, so your sympathy for me is limited. I understand. And, you’re probably wondering, where is the food? Am I going to write about a delicious snack? A scrumptious picnic we tucked into at the top of the hill?

No. We had no food on the hike. We barely had water – in fact, the water we did have we scrounged off others. But when the hike was done and the art complete, we headed into the Headlands Center for the Arts for dinner.

For $10 we dished up giant bowls of shrimp & albacore and/or mushroom & tofu Thai curry, grabbed $2 beers or $3 glasses of wine, and sat down at communal tables in the mess hall (the Center is in a de-commissioned army base) on which waited large platters of the freshest, crispiest, most herb-laced, fabulous tomato- and cucumber-laden green salad I’ve ever seen.

These dinners are usually for the artists-in-residence at the Center, but whenever there are artists talks or other public programs (or protests, as the case may be) the public is welcome to the dinners – just reserve a spot ahead of time and bring a twenty (the meals are usually a bit more elaborate than the one we had – on other visits I’ve been served chicken perfectly roasted in that brick oven you see in the back, homemade pasta, an asparagus and wild mushroom combo, salad, and a mixed fruit tart for dessert), a few bucks for booze, and a willingness to pitch in with the dishes.

It is a totally fun, completely delicious, utterly unique experience to have dinner at the Headlands. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Also, if anyone ever invites you to hike through nature carrying a reproduction of a painting by an artist who believed art should get as far from nature as possible, say yes. Bring a pair of gloves, plenty of sunscreen, and a snack, but say yes.

The kitchen might look familiar, it’s where we held Sausage Club, Part 2 last January.

Do you think creamy cole slaw has mayonnaise in it? I did. That’s what I thought until I was 29 and visiting my friend in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. We made cole slaw and I learned that the good stuff – that creamy, luscious kind that reminds me of the little container that would come with my Kentucky Fried dinner as a kid – is actually creamy. As in, it has cream in it.

I’ll let you take a moment to recover – this comes as big news to many people who never make cole slaw. Of course, I’m sure there are plenty of mayonnaise-laden versions out there, but the good stuff? Cream. Heavy cream.

You mix a little bit of cream with vinegar and the acid in the vinegar thickens the cream into a dressing-like, some may say mayonnaise-like, consistency. Some celery seeds, if you like, some salt, some pepper, and maybe some sugar if you’re one of those people who like sweet cole slaw, and you have the best cole slaw ever. I posted a full recipe for Creamy Cole Slaw over at Local Foods. It only gets better if it sits in the fridge for a bit and it could serve you very well this summer if you get invited to many potlucks or barbecues or, if you live in the 1960s, “patio parties.”

I had the chance to make some cole slaw last weekend – perhaps it will fit into your weekend this week. We had a couple families over for a last-minute cook-out. I thawed a bunch of delicious homemade sausage I still had in my freezer (I’m telling you, my dashing husband’s largely vegetarian diet is really cutting into my meat consumption) and, in a last-minute moment of utter and complete panic that 21 sausages would not be enough for six adults and four children (one of whom isn’t quite two), little patties I made for the kids out of some bulk sausage I also had (upper left corner of the grill). In what world would 21 sausages not have been enough?

Indeed, we had a few sausages leftover at the end of the evening – but not as many as you’d think. Just three of the lamb sausages,* which were spiced and just the eeniest teeniest bit dry. I cut them up, sauteed them in olive oil with some garlic and spinach and a few basil leaves, tossed the whole thing with pasta shells, and topped each serving with black pepper and grated goat gouda cheese. The resulting dish was surprisingly delicious – not like leftovers at all – and I like to think demonstrated a real rise on my part to the challenge my dashing husband unwittingly made when he said, “We have a lot of food, but none of it goes together.” A sentence guaranteed to make me say, “Ha!”

* Since the kids ate the four patties, that means the six adults ate a whopping 18 sausages – that’s three a piece. Me? I had one and a half. I’m a lady.

Even though I hail from the Midwest, I know precious little about farms or farming. What I do know was gleaned from The Farm Report, which I watched when I woke up before dawn at age 5, 6, 7. (Full disclosure: my bedtime until I was 9 or 10 was 7 pm. That was some hardcore old-fashioned Midwestern child-rearing my parents did.) I didn’t wake my parents, I just went downstairs and watched The Farm Report until cartoons came on. Sometimes I would have a bowl of cereal, but mainly I would just wait. Wait for cartoons. Wait for everyone else to wake up. Wait for the sun to rise. In the meantime I learned about the importance of weather (these people were obsessed!) and commodity prices (which didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time and about which I am still fuzzy because it sounds like a bit of a scam – but I must still be missing something).

So when two people I know and like came out with books about farms this spring, well, I was nervous. I was worried they might be dull. I was anxious, as I always am before I read a friend’s writing or see their artwork or hear their music for the first time: what if I think it sucks? I was also worried that no one would care, that farming has been too farmed out of our lives (that phrase proves its own point) for anyone to be hooked by a book about farming.

I worried in vain. I am thrilled to report both books are excellent. I rejoice in the pleasure I took in reading them. I feel so damn lucky that I know the people who put these words together. They put the writer back in food writer and the farm back in food.

Lisa M. Hamilton’s Deeply Rooted: Unconventional Farmers in the Age of Agribusiness is so good it made me angry. It was so good I had to stay up reading it, I just could not find it within myself to simply put it down and fall asleep. Lisa loves farms and farmers. Deeply Rooted tells the stories of three farmers who have opted out of what conventional farming has become – bigger is better, chemicals are fine, debt is a necessity – to forge their own paths in the American agricultural system. They have different degrees of success, they face problems, they are imperfect and fallible human beings. Lisa captures all of this with respect and insight. If you care at all about farms and farmers it’s a must-read, if you like good writing I’d put it in that same category. Not to get your hopes up or anything, but in some ways it was like if Alice Munro wrote non-fiction about farmers. Yes, I did just say that. You can read what Lisa has to say about why she writes about farming and how she eats locally in this Q&A with Lisa M. Hamilton I posted at Local Foods, as well as my Review of Deeply Rooted.

I met Novella at a conference where she spoke and the rest of us laughed our asses off at her shenanigans with chickens and rabbits and pigs, oh my! Novella is the kind of person who is so good, who seems to be living such an authentic existence that is so true to her self and her vision of the world that she makes you feel better just for knowing her. Why is that sentence in the second person? I have no idea how she may or may not make you feel, she makes me feel awesome and hopeful and topped off with possibility. Novella works at a biofuel station. That’s her day job. Then she writes as well – and as demonstrated in her book, Farm City: The Education of an Urban Farmer, does so beautifully. And when others might watch television or play Scrabble or stare at the ceiling and try to hear the quiet, Novella gets up off her ass and takes care of animals and a thriving garden and feeds a little pocket of the world that rubs up against her farm in the ghetto of Oakland.

I went to see her earlier this week (to get the quotes for this Q&A With Novella Carpenter I posted over at Local Foods). As I drove up to her house at 10:30 in the a.m. a hooker in a non-ass-covering gold lame body stocking-as-dress and a pair of knee-high Ugg knock-off fuzzy black boots was posing for an old man with a camera. Lying in the gutter for him, slithering up against the doorway of the shooting gallery/outhouse on the corner, and generally causing Novella and her neighbors to yell about how crazy it was to each other. That’s the neighborhood in which she has her farm. Prostitutes and shooting galleries? Check. Concerned neighbors bonding together over the insanity? Check.

We hung with her baby goats, who could not be cuter, and sat in the garden and chatted about her farm, why she farms, what farming means to her, and how very screwed up most people are about where their food – and particularly their meat – comes from.

“People think ‘I know this animal and I don’t want it to die’ but I’m going to eat unnamed meat and not feel bad about it. That makes no sense. It’s logically flawed. For me there is no conflict at all. There is great love and then you enjoy them all the more because you did know that they had a good life.”

I love everything she is doing and she is so smart and funny about it and so clearly fulfilled by it. And I know that I am never going to plant that garden or raise those animals. That’s what Novella does. The world is the better for it. I’m the better for witnessing it. And I’m really really glad she wrote a book about it because it is honest and funny and a fabulous story. (Read a review I wrote of it for Local Foods – Review of Farm City by Novella Carpenter.)

So it’s been a good spring, bookwise, anyway. Besides Farm City and Deeply Rooted, I also read:

• The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, which took my sweet self and blew it right out of any water it could find – that book simply freaked me out with its genius and language play and all of its pretty pretty words
• The Dud Avocado, a 1950s novel about… well, read it to find out but it starts with an American girl in Paris – perfect summer beach reading for those who like their page-turners well written
• A Homemade Life, by Molly Wizenberg of Orangette, full of her simple recipes and fabulous writing
• The River of Doubt, who knew I cared so much about Theodore Roosevelt? That’s what good writing does, of course, it makes you care when you otherwise might not

I’ve read other things this spring, these are just the stand-outs. As the title of the post says, it’s been a good season for reading. I’m feeling lucky.

Little known fact: you can “pop” wild rice just like you do popcorn. It doesn’t get as big as fluffy, and any un-popped seeds are pretty darn crunchy. Let’s just say that it’s not a snack for anyone with delicate dental work. But since my favorite part of popcorn is a magical combination of the salt and the unpopped or barely popped kernels, popped wild rice is right up my alley. It is also very fun to serve if you happen to have people over for cocktails because, well, it’s popped wild rice, and that’s pretty crazy so you’re all set for at least 5 if not 10 minutes of conversation. It also makes a deliciously crunchy thing to sprinkle on a salad – especially a salad of spicy greens like arugula tossed with a simple French-style vinaigrette and a handful or two of dried blueberries.

Seriously, pop it just like popcorn. If you want a more specific recipe, I’ve posted Popped Wild Rice over at Local Foods.

This week we had “Career Day” at my son’s school. I spoke to his kindergarten class and a third-grade class. I followed a parent who, among other things, creates exhibits at the Exploratorium and another parent who gave the kids computer keys that they joyfully pulled out of their pockets to show me. “Damn,” I thought, “I didn’t bring any toys.”

I did, however, bring cherries. I happily discovered, in a very unscientific survey, that 45 out of 45 kids love cherries. I talked to the kids about being a food writer, trying new foods, and describing food. I told the older kids how to make a berry fool, which they thought sounded really cool and then they asked for more recipes, which I took as a great sign for the future of home cooking. They got to eat some cherries and we tried to describe them together. Red, shiny, round, sweet, tart, were all yelled out multiple times. As were the following observations:

“It’s like an olive because it has a, a, a thing inside – what’s this called?” as a pit was held up for my inspection

“It’s a little like a lemon? Because of how it makes my mouth feel? But it’s also sweet like candy.”

“I could eat 1,000 cherries!”

Could hardly have said it better myself. We can all rest easy. The future of food writing is secure.

Ernest loved sharing the cherries with his classmates, but you know what he talked about when he got home? “Mama, Mama, guess what?” he said, “Tess’s dad showed us a computer. He makes computers and he showed us the inside of a computer!”

He had reason to be excited. He’s not really allowed to touch our computers. We don’t know anything about them and if they broke we’d have to pay someone a lot of money to fix them. We don’t even really know what might break them, so it’s best to play it safe and have them be off-limits. I mean, I wouldn’t want him doing anything to upset the tiny elves that make the computers go.

Which, I realize, is exactly how many people feel about their kitchens. And I want them to cook with their kids anyway, and try cooking from scratch and revel in the flavors they discover. So, in solidarity with every parent who lets their kid grate the cheese even though half of it ends up on the floor, I am going to be less scared of this google-machine on which I spend many many hours every single day (just like the people who are scared to cook – or scared to let their kids in the kitchen – still eat and feed their children several times a day). I will let Ernest use it. I will make it seem fun and exciting, even as I bite my nails with every click he makes. I will wish the tiny elves well.

People ask me about it a lot and then last weekend three sets of parents inquired in the space of 36 hours. The question: How did my son get to be “such a good eater”?

First and foremost, full disclosure: There are things he will not eat. “Sandwiches” being the category that aggravates me the most for obvious lunch-packing reasons.

He also claims not to like “bread.” He will, however, attack a baguette like nobody’s business and, as once observed by Margo True when I was bemoaning his claiming to not like bread while gorging on pita and lavosh and and fougasse and naan and injera: “Why, he just likes ethnic flatbreads!”

Tucking Into Spicy Mole

Yes, he loves his dim sum and sushi and tacos and tandoori fish and I’ve never seen him turn down a plate of ban chan – even the weird jiggly white fish-jello stuff – and he asks for second helpings of greens. He’ll eat abalone and foie gras and loves himself some raw oysters. But he will also eat all the sugary sweets he can get his hands on and craves chips of all sorts and wishes beyond hope to someday have a bag of Cheetos to call his own. He loves to fly because he gets ginger ale on the flight. And he loves Fridays because he gets to choose something from the ice cream cart chock full of neon-colored concoctions made to resemble Spiderman and Powergirls and Sponge Bob that lies in wait outside the school doors forcing parents to listen daily as their children beg for treats.

He is a human child, tempted by bright and shiny packaging and simple sugars and quick carbs and crispy fats. But yes, he is relatively omnivorous compared to plenty of other kindergardeners.

How did he get this way? Honestly, I’m not sure, but my hunch is that, along with a lot of luck, it is a combination of the following interconnected and overlapping factors:

1. Some kind of genetic or constitutional factor. He comes from a long line of hearty, adventurous eaters, which has to count for something.

2. He hasn’t been given a whole lot of choice. The meals he is served are the meals he is served, and the variance from eating what my dashing husband and I eat gets slimmer with each passing month. When he was younger I would more frequently pull out some plain noodles if a pasta dish had something in it I knew he didn’t like or scramble some eggs if dinner seemed particularly “challenging” (in particular, I remember understanding his lack of enthusiasm for a giant bowl of bright pink steaming borscht). I don’t do that anymore. I am not, as he has heard me say many a time, a short order cook. That said, I do take the whole family into account when making dinner. If I’m making a dish I know someone isn’t that into, I try to also make something I know they love.

3. He eats at fairly set times. There are the three meals a day and usually a morning snack and an afternoon snack. There is not much random snacking in between. When meal times come, he’s hungry and ready to eat.

4. He also eats at a set place. It’s called the dining table. I highly recommend it.

5. He has always been a good size for his age. He’s not chubby at all, but he’s always been solid. There is plenty of muscle on that boy. The notion of him skipping a meal never filled me with much worry, and that has allowed me to follow through on my claims of “that is what is for dinner, eat it or don’t.”

6. No one – at least not his parents – ever assumed he wouldn’t like something. Quite the opposite, my assumption is that if a foodstuff is tasty, he will like it. Hence, his experience of food has, since he was in utero, been a broad one. He had his first raw oyster at age two because all the grown-ups were so excited about them that he wanted to try one. Without someone telling him anything except “here you go,” he didn’t know it was an odd thing for a toddler to like. Of course, he then received a lot of very positive attention from everyone as he asked for a second and third and fourth oyster.

7. He lives in a city with lots of different kinds of food, so none of them ever seemed foreign or weird to him, much less like things kids wouldn’t eat. To him “chicken noodle soup” may include a matzoh ball, rice noodles, coconut milk, or arugula leaves. We bring him to eat where we want to eat, and we want to eat lots of different stuff. If you’re not a “good eater” how can your kid be one?

8. He has a parent with enough Midwest in her to be vaguely repulsed by both waste and notions of any of us being a hot house flower. You ordered crispy tacos and they come with guacamole on them and you “don’t like sauce”? Scrape it off and eat your tacos.

9. Same said parent is pretty repulsed by the whole notion of “kid food.” I find it insulting to kids and insulting to food. To me food is mainly something to be enjoyed, but that enjoyment goes beyond the signal between our taste buds and our brains. It includes the careful choosing and preparation of food, the sharing of food, and the conviviality of eating together. Why dumb it down and deny children the opportunity to experience it and learn to love it?

10. He lives in a food-centric world. I work in food. My dashing husband is into food. Ernest has visited farms and restaurants and test kitchens ever since he can remember. He even used to help out – snapping beans, shelling peas – in the Sunset test kitchen on those weird school holidays when I would drag him to work with me. He knows about food and where it comes from.* Maybe it’s the same for him as it is for me: knowledge creates interest and interest begets pleasure.

11. I have always firmly believed that my job as a parent is to somehow turn a completely dependent infant into a fully independent adult. It doesn’t always mesh with my more immediate desire to have a happy child in every particular moment, but that belief has gotten me through plenty of heart-breaking tears and maddening tantrums – including those around food and demands for more treats – by focusing on the big picture.

12. I also believe that sad parents, super-tired parents, completely over-extended parents, or just plain fed-up parents are not good for kids, so I try to avoid becoming one. We don’t actually have that many rules in our house, but those we do have are often for my convenience – and that includes the “that’s what’s for dinner” rule. Yes, eating at the table instead of being allowed to wonder the house with snacks is a good habit. It also means there is less cleaning to do. A three year-old can bus their own dishes and do an okay job of shucking corn. A four year-old can get their own water if you set things up right and their tiny fingers are perfect for peeling shrimp. A five year-old who drops rice all over the floor can help clean it up and can peel carrots and grate cheese perfectly serviceably. They can also set a table, more or less.

I don’t claim any or all of this is right for any other family or parent or child. Everyone figures out how to feed their own child. I have been asked how we have “such a good eater” and these are simply the explanations that come to mind. If anyone finds it useful, that’s great. And if I sound like a bit of a mean mommy? I’m cool with that.

Did I miss something? What are you doing to raise a relatively omnivorous child?

* Just recently, when we went strawberry picking, Ernest was hoping there would be chickens at the farm. He waxed poetic about his past interactions with chickens and how he can pick them up and pet them and how much he wishes we could get chickens. Then he paused, looked up, and said with absolute glee “Mama, and you know what? Chicken is also my favorite meat!” It reminded me of the time he was three, gnawing on a frog leg at a French bistro in Portland, and he asked in a tone of half “ah-ha” and half “no, that can’t be right”, “Mama, is this the leg of a frog?” I told him indeed it was, worried that he might be upset. He just nodded and went on eating the tender, succulent meat.

Want more? Check out Hungry Monkey: A Food-Loving Father’s Quest to Raise an Adventurous Eater.