A friend was lamenting the old "what to make for dinner" question on Facebook today.
Boy can I relate. My children eat about six thing a piece, and not the same six, so dinner can be a real hair ripper.
Add in all of Mark's finickiness and his allergies and sensitivities and you really find yourself running a short order cafe. People, usually the ones without kids, will say "you control what they eat", these people have never had their evening spoiled by a fight with a five year old over dinner.
Maxwell could sometimes be successfully bullied into eating what I demanded he eat, but Freyja would rather die than give in, so you may as well just save your breath and our patience and make her a grilled cheese, not even a grilled cheese, no that would be too mixed up for the Princess and the Pea girl.
She would require cheese on a tiny plate, and a slice of bread, dry, on another.
Oddly enough she will chow down on some hardcore stinky cheese, just as long as it's plain.
Maxwell is a much more adventurous eater than Freyja, but he has the annoying habit of changing his likes and dislikes with an irrational frequency.
Freyja is rather steadfast in her opinions on food.
My father hates vegetables, or so he says. He and his sister have both lambasted my poor Grandma Betty's cooking more than once.
I, on the other hand have only the most fond memories of her cooking, and would forgo most restaurant meals for some of her dumplings, or stewed tomatoes, or even green salad, there was just something really nice about the way she put a salad together, that I rarely find anymore.
Growing up, I hated my mother's cooking, which I realize now was more a result of poverty and lack of time, than anything else.
She had a terrible habit of making soup, by putting in way too many things that in my opinion do not go together. I hate soup as a rule to this day.
If it has corn in it, I will not be eating it, no matter what. I even offended a co-worker recently by stating innocently enough, that hominy is the ONE, the one thing I will never eat, only to learn that she had chosen the posole for lunch. Rolf once bought be one of those industrial cans of hominy as a joke, and it sits, mocking me in our cupboard, a memory of too much nasty soup.
She also tries to sneak old lettuce in. catsup
You really have to watch her.
She was so pleased when she first went to Belgium, to find that putting lettuce in soup and pureeing it was perfectly normal.
She tried to pass off some old lettuce soup to me just last week.
My mother's mother was also guilty of tying to camouflage old left-overs, but she typically did it with meatloaf, which is somehow less disgusting than limp soup.
My uncle has a revulsion of gravy, for the same reason I hate soup, it is just a stretched out liquid reminder to him that you don't have enough money for a proper meal. I personally love gravy, but I respect his boundary, despite the fact that he puts ketchup on eggs, which is just wrong.