The wife knew what I was thinking. She’s heard it all before. She shook her head as I turned to look at Kenzie, a two-year old with her own distorted eating habits.
Unlike the boy, my younger daughter, will eat, or at least try many types of food. But while he’s good about getting the food into his mouth, her fork often gets lost along the way. She is in need of a triple-A map to help locate her pie-hole. At any given meal, a spoon load of spaghetti might make it to her lips. Then again, it might also end up on my wall in a graffiti splattered mess, tomato sauce drive-by shooting.
With a mustard covered hot dog in her hand, The baby girl is Vincent Van Goh with an extra ear and a diaper full of urine. To the baby girl; macaroni and cheese could be thought of as a food item, but it also makes a splendid building material. In her hands, the noodles become like a chunky modeling clay which easily glob into mountains of yellow goop. Like a prodigious mole, she digs and tunnels through her yellow matted mountain, excavating cavernous hiding spots for napkins and silver ware and tiny Barbie slippers.
To the little girl, milk is both a drink and a liquefied storage vessel for warehousing sundry food items. It’s an opaquely white laboratory where experiments of density and floatation are conducted.
Will a chunk of hamburger float? How long does it take pizza to sink? Can steak be seen with the naked eye through the milky veil of white?
And just how absorbent is a slice of chocolate cake? All these questions, and more, are being answered at every meal.
My daughter has a doctorate in foodology, developing theorems on French fry hydration, where unsuspecting potato products are submerged in Petrie dishes of calcium. Like festering match sticks on an angry sea of discovery, the blobs of starch begin to break down into nucleotides of fat and unrecognizable pulp.
I’ve seen the girl pour ketchup into her milk, swirling it around like a Budweiser Brew master.
Is it child’s play? Or innovative scientific discovery? Some would maintain that the tiny has established the quantum theorem of ketchup molecularization which simply states: Any viscous tomato product, when swirled in a milky broth, will leave a vinegar based trace pattern of accelerating particles.
Einstein could neither prove nor disprove the theory, partially because he was too busy dealing with light and energy, but also because he was lactose intolerant.
What I wouldn’t give for a Teflon coated high chair, surrounded by catcher mitts and sponges the size of Buicks.
What I wouldn’t give for a carpet which caught food, bundled it in a tight little sack and disposed of the waste while I slept.
What I wouldn’t give for a meal where the whole family ate the same food.
My wife pulls out her hair trying to figure out who wants Ramen and who wants grilled cheese and who wants this and who wants that.
“Just serve one meal, and if they’re hungry they’ll eat,” I say.
The wife is too conscientious a mother. She hates being a restaurant, but a restaurant she has become.
Kids and food. They go together like metal rain gear in an electrical storm.
My advice: Get a dog. They eat everything.
Unlike the boy, my younger daughter, will eat, or at least try many types of food. But while he’s good about getting the food into his mouth, her fork often gets lost along the way. She is in need of a triple-A map to help locate her pie-hole. At any given meal, a spoon load of spaghetti might make it to her lips. Then again, it might also end up on my wall in a graffiti splattered mess, tomato sauce drive-by shooting.
With a mustard covered hot dog in her hand, The baby girl is Vincent Van Goh with an extra ear and a diaper full of urine. To the baby girl; macaroni and cheese could be thought of as a food item, but it also makes a splendid building material. In her hands, the noodles become like a chunky modeling clay which easily glob into mountains of yellow goop. Like a prodigious mole, she digs and tunnels through her yellow matted mountain, excavating cavernous hiding spots for napkins and silver ware and tiny Barbie slippers.
To the little girl, milk is both a drink and a liquefied storage vessel for warehousing sundry food items. It’s an opaquely white laboratory where experiments of density and floatation are conducted.
Will a chunk of hamburger float? How long does it take pizza to sink? Can steak be seen with the naked eye through the milky veil of white?
And just how absorbent is a slice of chocolate cake? All these questions, and more, are being answered at every meal.
My daughter has a doctorate in foodology, developing theorems on French fry hydration, where unsuspecting potato products are submerged in Petrie dishes of calcium. Like festering match sticks on an angry sea of discovery, the blobs of starch begin to break down into nucleotides of fat and unrecognizable pulp.
I’ve seen the girl pour ketchup into her milk, swirling it around like a Budweiser Brew master.
Is it child’s play? Or innovative scientific discovery? Some would maintain that the tiny has established the quantum theorem of ketchup molecularization which simply states: Any viscous tomato product, when swirled in a milky broth, will leave a vinegar based trace pattern of accelerating particles.
Einstein could neither prove nor disprove the theory, partially because he was too busy dealing with light and energy, but also because he was lactose intolerant.
What I wouldn’t give for a Teflon coated high chair, surrounded by catcher mitts and sponges the size of Buicks.
What I wouldn’t give for a carpet which caught food, bundled it in a tight little sack and disposed of the waste while I slept.
What I wouldn’t give for a meal where the whole family ate the same food.
My wife pulls out her hair trying to figure out who wants Ramen and who wants grilled cheese and who wants this and who wants that.
“Just serve one meal, and if they’re hungry they’ll eat,” I say.
The wife is too conscientious a mother. She hates being a restaurant, but a restaurant she has become.
Kids and food. They go together like metal rain gear in an electrical storm.
My advice: Get a dog. They eat everything.