For the seventh year in a row, no children of mine have woken me up and made me breakfast. I'm wondering if that is going to change in year eight. I hope they know not to bring me any carb-laden pancakes or anything. My present today was going to work out early in the morning, and then naturally, coming home and eating a lot of peanut butter.
Breakfast
Kashi Go Lean!
Heritage Flakes
Strawberries
Blueberries
Banana
Unsweetened Soy Milk
Coffee
Postworkout Snack
6 oz. Stonyfield Yogurt
Tablespoons of Peanut BUtter
Lunch;
2 hamburgers,
cole slaw
green salad with feta & balsamic
snack
split a newman's microwave popcorn with ruby
dinner
breast of chicken
spicy brisket
salad
dessert
a few cherries, a bite of pudding.
For Father's Day, food for thought
By John Burgess, Globe Staff | June 13, 2007
When it comes to eating, I have one good child and one bad child. Oh gosh; that sounds like labeling, doesn't it? "Bad," I hasten to tell you, actually stands for "battling appetite deficiency" (ceding that phony acronym was the only way daughter A would permit me to quote her for this story. And no, she's not anorexic; that's nothing I would joke about).
The good eater, M, was birthed, and as soon as she got over that first good cry, fell to sharing her mother's meal tray -- oven-fried chicken and Jell-O cubes. Well, perhaps memory exaggerates that instance, but I know that she was downing raw cherrystones at the age of 3. (Bad parenting, yes, but she survived, and at least we kept her off the Texas Pete.)
A, offered her first rice cereal at the age of 6 months, responded with her first word, if "ptooey" is a word. I am now sure that she intended this as no less than fair warning.
These memories are prompted in part by the approach of Father's Day. My first Father's Day I recall in a warm haze, mostly of sleep deprivation. But it also bears the glow of self-congratulation, as though I had actually produced the breast milk with which I bottle-fed A. And the blessedness of giving nourishment to an eager child.
This dad's day, the much wised-up parent of two teenagers, I look back to the bottle feedings and the 3,000 peanut butter sandwiches that followed. And ahead to -- well, I'm not sure; for some time now, the girls have remained a step or two ahead of me in their likes and dislikes. A, who once thrived on chicken nuggets, is now a functional vegetarian who only likes about three vegetables. (She voluntarily consumes a number of other vegetables but says, "It feels like such a waste of time.") M at one time loved both shrimp and mushrooms and now dislikes one or the other, or both, I can't remember. (Yes, more bad parenting.)
Recipe:
Vegetable soup
But even stumbling along far behind my progeny, this parent has learned a few things.
Maintain perspective. Ignore the food scolds. Pizza, for instance, is decent food -- bread, cheese, tomatoes. Throw some mushrooms on it and it sounds practically, well, Mediterranean. A serving of potato chips and a baked potato with a tablespoon of butter have just about the same amount of fat. Creme brulee is made with eggs.
If a good food clicks, use it and never complain, even if they want it meal after meal. Variety is an adult value. "Don't you want something besides broccoli?" -- Jeez, I never really said that, did I?
Peer pressure and pop culture have the force of catechism. If Gwen Stefani's next single is "I Get All Hot for Liver, Bacon, and Onions," the dish will sweep Teenage Nation. Unlikely. But the good thing is that no female star admits to eating anything but healthy food these days; their publicists make them. Jessica Alba has oatmeal and fruit for breakfast. Jessica Alba. Oatmeal. Fruit. Use this.
Texture trumps taste. Mouth feel is 90 percent of the sale, as all those diabolical food chemists know. So no pulp in the OJ, no blood in the meat ("Omigod, eew, Dad, eew!), no stewed tomatoes in the soup, no chickpeas in the salad, no discernible fat. Crisp is good, creamy is good, in-between mushy is bad. Polenta's a loser.
So is fish, usually. But again, look for the angles: Give a 13-year-old boy a super-crunchy nibble of grilled fresh sardine, hot and crispy from the fire, and he will soon be downing the crackling beasties head and all.
Please, no cooking "from the heart." Don't ever think that if you really put love and care into a meal, you're gonna hear: "Gosh, Dad, that was good -- and good for me, too." Suck it up, guys, we're here to do a job. The real-life testimony I most cherish is M's "Even on vacation, you make us eat salad." The golden moments are few, and tend to come mostly eating out. Not long ago, basking in the glamour of Petit Robert Bistro, M gratified me by dining with ladylike gusto not just on the frites and crème brulee, but also the potage of green cabbage and the roast chicken. And A? I think she was then on the Cape with her mom's parents (an indulgent Jewish grandma and a Mallomar addict -- more dubious characters in the caretaker mix; so sue us), probably with her face stuck in the fridge, squirting Reddi- wip into her gob.
I know what I'll be having for Father's Day brunch: pancakes, good ones, made by the girls. Though I like pancakes, I wouldn't mind something less sweet and decorous -- say, country ham and grits all mushed up with over-easy eggs, or blood-rare lamb chops I could gnaw to the bone. I know: "Eew, Dad, eew." But it's Father's Day, girls, and -- warning: more bad parenting -- you owe me.
Not a great day after; shame spiral; the need for zealotry. We got up early and had to take my car to the dealership; to avoid leaving me there all day, Emily and I and the kids all went. Then, I insisted we go to a diner named Lloyd's in Framingham, which I thought was close by, but by the time we were close, everyone was cranky, we didn't know where we were and the girls were starting to cry. When we got there it was an actual train car but it was only made for people so the grill that was taking half the space made it inhospitable for two children who were cooped up in a lost car after being dragged to a car dealership on a sunny day. They ran around the back of the diner, which was a nice, dangerous assortment of strange rocks and automotive pits. What drove me to order corned-beef hash was me in a weakened state; I don't know.
