Borscht, which I’m told just means “stew” in Russian (correct me! please!), in its beet-centric variety is one of my favorite soups. I like it thick with cabbage and beans (and meat even) as we had it last night as those pesky spring winds whipped up and sent us all shivering into our poorly insulated San Francisco houses. I like it thin and plain and chilled. I like it with tiny mushroom dumplings in it. I like it with a sprinkle of fresh dill. I like that it’s a brilliant, scary color. I like that I had a quart of it sitting, waiting in the deep-freeze for an evening when I had cooked through the CSA box earlier in the week than usual, no one wanted to go to the store, and no one much cared what we ate.
Except Ernie. He and I have a lot in common (half our genetic material, for example). What we do not share is a love of borscht. He tried it. He tried several bites. He made the same face he makes every time he tries it: let’s call it displeased. He ate some cereal instead. And strawberries. He doesn’t get a substitute dinner very often for two reasons: one, he’s a decent eater who doesn’t ask for one; two, it’s been drummed into his head that “I am not a short-order cook.”
Am I asking too much of him when I serve up a big, steaming bowl of fuchsia root vegetables?
Want your child to become a good eater? Read this… « Secrets of a Kitchen Wizard | 06-Jun-09 at 12:11 am | Permalink
[...] (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 [...]