Once upon a time, not so long ago, hubby and I led a child-free existence. We were gainfully employed. We had few responsibilities  beyond turning up at our white collar jobs in the morning, sober and wearing clothing. Life was simple then.

Our lifestyle revolved around eating out nightly – trying new restaurants, systematically ordering everything on the menu at a favorite haunt, and venturing into strange and unusual culinary adventures (”Hey! This Turkish-Inuit fusion is FAB! Pass some more of that seal flipper tartare in a coffee and date coulis, will ya?”) We dropped inordinate quantities of money on restaurant food, and we were unrepentant.

We vowed, that once we had kids, we would not become “those people.” Those downtrodden sods that are forced to give up good eats in favor of places with crayons and plasticated cartoon menus? Not us! Fast food joints with indoor play equipment? Shunnnn! We were not going to allow our progeny to become “those kids” – the ones we repeatedly heard would only accept offerings of chicken fingers, ketchup and chocolate milk. There was no way our flesh and blood would EVER put a neon-hued, sugar encrusted cereal in their blessed mouth. We would mold them into perfect, tiny foodies, and unleash them upon the world, one tapas bar at a time.

When our first baby arrived in spring of 2005, the first place we took her when we were discharged from the hospital post-birth, was our favorite all-you-can-eat sushi dive. We proceeded with our plan to indoctrinate food worship into her malleable little brain by skipping the traditional first solid food of gruel/slop/baby cereal, and opted to hand fed her slippery vermicelli noodles and rare beef pho from our usual Vietnamese joint. She gobbled it up, wanted more, and we never ended up cracking a jar of commercial baby food. We had succeeded in creating a toddler that grew to prefer edamame to carrots, and hummus to ranch dip. She learned how to behave in restaurants at a young age, and was trotted out to 4 and 5 star establishments in her high chair. We went to parties, and she’d feast off of broccoli spears dipped in babba ghanoush. People marveled at the blessing we had – a child that loved veggies and ate everything she was offered!

We were mighty smug.

“Look at us! We’ve discovered the secret to raising tiny foodies! Those OTHER people are losers who stuff their kids with boxed and processed macaroni and cheese, and then wonder why their kids won’t eat rutabaga chips. Harumph!” *Back pat*

Sigh.

The magic, it could not live forever.

One sad day, just weeks after the eldest turned two, we were busy hand-feeding our new baby sticky rice and cucumber bits from kappa maki rolls. Something had tweaked in her little toddler brain during the night, and she was instantly transformed into the pickiest little food diva that had ever chewed. Foods in which she had previously taken so much delight in  – spaetzle, rice pilaf, smoked salmon, onion rings – were now rejected.

Requests for nauseatingly blue instant pudding cups began to be voiced. Burgers must be now plain. Pizza must only contain cheese and pepperoni. Ketchup = drinkable. Embarrassingly colored processed kid-targeted food began to infiltrate my shopping cart. Behavior in “human” restaurants became so appalling, that the only place we could reasonably obtain food in public was at establishments that had climbing apparatuses in the middle of them. Badly dressed plastic clowns in garb and hair in primary color shades looked on. The mind blowing lists of things that our daughter would eat, making me look Mommier-Than-Thou at playgroups was decimated. It shriveled into a measly point form Post-It Note, a few lines of utter crap that she would consider consuming.

Time passed. Happy Meal Toys rolled shamefully under the seats of the mini-van. Fast food napkins and ketchup packets took up massive market-share in my purse. We began to eat at home, nearly every meal, every day. We hid our faces from the condemnation of other foodies. We had failed – defeated by little people who would just as soon scarf dog-food from a dish or eat worms from the dirt.

A few weeks ago, years after the embargo on good food began, it came to a halt. Julia’s guerrilla war on culinary delights came to a cease-fire as quickly as it had begun. My offerings of fiddle heads tickled with roasted garlic and lemon kissed olive oil were accepted. Wild rice was inhaled.  Forays into restaurants that did not feature plastic utensils and plastic play yards became a reality once again.

We’re becoming really damn smug again.

All is not sparkles and mauve unicorns, in the kitchen at Chez Everitt. The kids still gravitate to electric blue ice-cream dotted with chunks of bubble gum. They want to eat “Dora” chicken noodle soup from a purple can. We have heated discussions about the appropriateness of stealing bottles of liquid chocolate Quick from the pantry and licking it off the floor. I cannot convince them that they would really, really like the delicious grilled portabello if they just tried it. Raising a little foodie is a work in progress, and we will never completely arrive until the day that Julia and Natasha come home with the low-down on a really cool Basque-Sri Lankan fusion place they tried last week.

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