Parenting Without A License

Single Serving

Posted by Kimberly on November 23rd, 2007 — Posted in The Ladies, Kipple, NaBloPoMo

I am not a foodie.  In fact, I’m not a big fan of food.  I hate preparing it, and I’m not even much for eating the stuff.  Not that I’ve got some sort of eating disorder; I just don’t get a lot enjoyment out of food.  If someone would just get around to inventing those meal replacement pills that the 1960s sci fi writers promised we would all be popping by now, I’d be in heaven. (Willy Wonka’s magical gum is not an acceptable substitute, and not because I don’t want to end up as another Violet Beauregarde.  All that chewing seems to defeat the purpose, if you ask me.)

As a mom, I feel guilty about my anti-food bias.  I know that I should be modeling good nutritional habits, that I should cook homemade meals more often, that mac & cheese is not a food group, but sometimes it’s just all so much effort when really, all they want are lunchables anyway.  It doesn’t help that I am a crappy cook.  I don’t mean just that I’m uninspired in the kitchen–although that’s true and I’ve got the seemingly steady diet of chicken and pasta to prove it–I’m also just a bad cook.  Even when diligently following the recipe, there are no guarantees that things are going to work out the way they’re supposed to when I’m the one helming the stove. Add to that the fact while I’m theoretically cooking for 3, realistically I’m the only one who will be really eating what’s prepared and it’s even hard to talk myself out of just popping something from the Lean Cuisine food group in the microwave for me while their fourth pasta dinner of the week boils on the stove.

I do try though.  Much though I hate cooking it, and lord knows they (or, to be fair, Diva Girl) hates eating it, I do at least attempt some sort of homecooked meal a few times a week.  Given my level of culinary skill and interest and Sabrina’s incredible pickiness, this usually translates into “chicken, bland vegetable, and starch, all served independent of each other.”  Sometimes, however, I try to break outside of the KD box.

Like tonight, for example.  Tonight, we made ratatouille.  The Ladies have been enjoying the movie, and they’ve been wondering what the heck ratatouille is anyway.  So, I seized the teachable moment to expand their palates and hopefully make up whatever vegetable deficit they’re running right now.

I had a whole plan.  First, I tracked down a recipe that both claimed to be incredibly simple and seemed to follow through on that claim.  This one, which appeared to pretty much consist of “chop up veggies and throw them in the oven,” looked perfect.  So, I announced to The Ladies that tonight, we cook!

They were thrilled.  From the trip to the grocery store for eggplant, zucchini and incredibly exotic items like olive oil and balsamic vinegar through the prep stage that involved chopping (me) and tossing (them) vegetables with wanton abandon, The Ladies were wildly enthusiastic about our project.  So much so that, as I supervised the measuring of the spices and the whisking of the marinade, I wondered why we didn’t do this–cook as a family–more often.  There was something satisfying about knowing that we’d created this meal together, something incredibly familial about the bustle and activity in our normally barren kitchen.  It was even, dare I say it, fun.  Plus, I was counting on the fact that they were invested in this meal to overcome their natural reluctance towards eating anything that hadn’t been given the Chef’s seal of approval.

It seemed to be working.  They fluttered around the kitchen, commenting favourably for once on the smells emanating from there and demanding to know when it would be ready to devour.  When my dad came over to do some winterizing work on the apartment, Regan proudly announced, “We made radatootie!” before scampering off to peer through the stove window at their masterpiece.  I was gratified and optimistic, already planning all sorts of future culinary experiments.

And then I opened the oven door.

“Ew!  I’m not eating that!” Diva Girl insisted, pointing at the roasting pan filled with colourful, succulent vegetables.  No amount of reasoning, wheedling, cajoling, or threatening could budge her from her stance.  And of course, Zen Baby, usually so adventurous in her food choices, followed her big sister’s lead.

You know what the worst part of serving them jungle pancakes for dinner was?  That ratatouille was actually good.  The one time I actually create something in the kitchen that goes beyond the merely edible, and I’m the only who knows.  Oh well, more for me, I guess.