Iris and I were doing a restaurant story starring Sheep. I portrayed Cow.
> **Cow:** What’s this restaurant called?
> **Sheep:** Sheep’s Own Restaurant. What would you like?
> **Cow:** What do you have?
> **Sheep:** You have to tell me.
> **Cow:** Can’t you tell me what’s on the menu?
> **Sheep:** I can’t, I’m being controlled by Iris, and she doesn’t know *anything.*
I’m pleased to report that I am now part of the [Serious Eats](http://www.seriouseats.com/) family, whose patriarch is New York food writer Ed Levine. Other members of the clan include pizza expert Adam Kuban of [Slice](http://slice.seriouseats.com/); Adam Roberts, the [Amateur Gourmet](http://www.amateurgourmet.com/); and other people not named Adam.
I’ll be writing for S.E. every other Monday on the topic of kids and food (no way!). My first post is:
> OK, I had a bag of the stuff on top of the fridge, but we’re past the stage where my three-year-old, Iris, would request Booty and a cup of warm milk every afternoon for a snack. And adults don’t eat that sort of thing. Maybe seven or 12 pieces here and there while preparing Iris’s snack. That’s it.
Today in the Seattle Times:
> If I were an Olympic judge, I’d give the August farm-stand tomatillos a 10. But here’s the trick: I’ve picked up tomatillos at the supermarket in April, and I’d have to give them at least a 7.
The article doesn’t mention this, but there are other reasons I’d be a great Olympic judge. Like, during the figure skating, I’d be yelling out things like, “That flippy thing was great! I give it a ten!” And the Russian judge would be elbowing me and saying the scoring only went up to six, and I’d be all, “Cram it, Helga! Where I come from, if you flip your junk around like that, you get a ten.”
Today’s recipe, I notice, looks really long and complicated. I assure you it’s easy and worth making over and over.
The purest joy in life, I’ve often said, is getting a package. Who is more loved than the UPS guy? We moved out of our old UPS guy’s zone three years ago, and he still greets me by name whenever I see him. When we were expecting Iris, I basically treated her like a package, something we preordered well before its release date. “Is my little buddy coming out today?” I would ask Laurie, in the same I ask, “Any packages for me?” when I’m expecting something from Amazon.
The flip side of this, of course, is the depression that results from many consecutive days of junk mail. Around here, junk mail is defined as anything other than paychecks, packages, cards, or magazines. We had not received any of these things since last Tuesday. I was starting to flinch as I opened the mailbox.
Then, today, there was a package from Penzeys spices. I had ordered some new chili powder. I didn’t think there would ever be a time in my life when I’d be thrilled to get a package of mild chili powder, but I told Iris, “This chili powder is not spicy!” She and Laurie opened the box. Iris has package fever, just like me. She tasted the chili powder and pronounced it good. Enchiladas tomorrow! And maybe a paycheck or an issue of Saveur? Please?
From today’s New York Times:
Mom Puts Family on Her Meal Plan
> When my first son was little, I fed him puréed chunks of whatever my husband and I had for dinner. I congratulated myself when he showed a precocious affection for capers. The trick, I explained to friends who were amazed at his willingness to eat chopped broccolini, was to resist the child’s capricious demands for separate meals. Fortitude, I counseled.
> Then, of course, came No. 2.
> My second son has stubbornly adhered to a diet of mostly white foods for nearly six years: pasta, rice, cheese, bread, potatoes, chicken. He also eats red meat, baby carrots and chocolate. Recently, in what is being regarded as a green revolution, he has added edamame and string beans.
This seems to be one of those things that surprises every parent. It’s like lack of sleep: you know you’re going to lose sleep, but until you get there, you don’t really just how much sleep you’re going to lose, and you think about going on Wikipedia to learn about death from sleep-deprivation, except you are too tired to Wikipedia.
Similarly, I think we all know that our children are delivered with their own personalities, but it’s still wacky to see it in action. Kids are not play-dough. They’re not even really stiff refrigerator cookie dough. (Warning: uncharacteristic touchy-feely ahead.) They’re marble. Every marble sculpture is beautiful in its own way, right? But you can’t mod your sculpture without breaking it. Maybe you can throw a coat of paint on it for special occasions.
What was I talking about?