Raspberries, good for what ails you
October 5, 2006
(I have a new post up over at my other blog continuing the discussion of picky eaters and focusing on food portion distortion)
I have never liked to cook.
I think in part it is because eating and dinner time was never enjoyable to me as a child. I have none of those warm fuzzy food related memories that I hear people talk about all the time. Like “Oh my mother’s home made apple pie.” or “Oh when I was a child we would always make___ for this holiday.” Unless you count the number of times I was served eggs which would cause me to dry heave at the dinner table as a warm and fuzzy memory.
My mother didn’t know how to cook. Nor did she own even a single cook book.
Her favorite thing to make was chicken thighs. Which might not have been all that bad I suppose, but she would arrive home from work and take the package out of the freezer. A huge amorphous frozen mass of chicken and stick it into the metal 9×11 baking pan. She would then sprinkle a butt-ton of Thyme on the top of it (a spice I have yet to use in my adult life). Into the oven it would go. The meal would be made complete by opening a can of peas and boiling them until they were no longer pea shaped. And maybe there would be some buttered noodles.
I was almost an adult when I realized that you could buy chicken that tasted good and didn’t have bones it.
Other than apples, I don’t recall fresh fruit in our house. Salads were iceberg lettuce with that orange French dressing on top. Vegetables came in cans with dusty tops. And baking of any kind happened once every few years for Christmas and was always a stressful, NOT AT ALL fun event. In fact I would try and stay as far away from the kitchen and my rolling pin wielding mother as possible.
So is it any surprise at all that this is yet another area in my parenting that I arrived at by learning from my mother what not to do.
Yesterday we went to a small organic farm near us to pick raspberries. I frequently go there to buy produce and they have fresh baked goods that make me want to cry because I can’t possibly eat them all and still fit into my house. Though I try. I try.
We came home and made pies. Or more accurately, they made the pies and I supervised.
And I contained my brain matter for most of the pie making extravaganza, until this.
Why must they poke the pie all willy nilly like that? Dear God why??? It was then that my eye began to twitch uncontrollably and I was forced to whisk the pies into the oven so that I didn’t have to gaze at their hideous disfigurement any longer.
Miles clearly won, though the pie put up a valiant effort, second only to the front of my pants.
RSS feed for comments on this post.
The URI to TrackBack this entry is: