What the hell is with the expression, ‘currying favour’. (Someone knows where the expression came from anyway).
They are not going to eat fricken curry I told myself.
This is torture for a foodie like me. I didn’t have the
illusion liberty of trying to shape their palates with they were womb-bound by eating squid, miso, avocados and pineapple. The elusive umami.
I’m finding myself in food fights with the girls. It seems the list of “I don’t like…” is getting longer and longer. Add that to the erratic, messy and unpredictable nutrient ingestion habits of my gym rat husband and it seems that rhythm around food is NOT happening around here how I’d envisioned. Or rather, the rhythm had denigrated to a punctuation mark that plays out as a feeling of dread coming from the back seat as Clover and Belles ask their everyday question when I pick them up from school: What’s for dinner?
I start with a cheerful reply. I usually don’t have dinner exactly planned out as I thrive on the creativity of using what is on hand. I pick something I have. Broccoli. They love broccoli.
‘What else Mummy?’
‘Stuffed chicken.’ I might reply on the fly.
‘Ummm.. what’s that?’
Here we go: ‘It’s a chicken breast with spinach, sun dried tomato and goat cheese inside.’
I want to teach them about food but I think this is exactly where it starts to go down hill. I give them something to protest.
‘But I don’t like spinach.’
I justify my position: ‘It’s only a tiny bit in each one. That’s what’s for dinner.’
I feel defensive. I love food. JMac loves whatever I make (even if it’s on his unspoken LIST).
I still think I am am trying to curry the favour of my children. Would I do this if they fell out of my own womb? Really. Would I?
Well, recently I fed them curry. Meatless Monday (yet to be disclosed as a ritual to the fam-damily) was a chickpea and veggie curry. They took about an hour to eat it but it was without complaint. To be fair it was totally bland. An introduction of sorts. Their palates were temporarily tamed.