Doing Really Dumb Things a.k.a. Making Enchiladas with Your Kids

Tonight, in a moment of less clarity, I did several unintelligent things.


1. I, a woman with no cooking skills, decided to make dinner.


2. I, in typical me fashion, selected an intricate recipe for what can be a simple dish. (Why do in two steps what you can do in ten?)


3. I, in an attempt to get my 5 year old more adventurous about food, enlisted said 5 year old's help in preparing said intricate recipe.


4. I also enlisted the help of the 5 year old's brother. His little brother. You know, the three year old.


We were making enchiladas.


While I was in the thick of it, I was excited and having a grand ol' time. The fact that we were making a monumental mess in my kitchen was in the back of my mind, but I was too busy preventing my kids from scalding themselves or grabbing a cilantro knife that the mess couldn't consume me. At least not then.


They had a great time smuggling shredded cheese when my back was turned.


They were so excited that I really was convinced they'd at least give the enchiladas a try. I know full well that they don't eat meat that isn't chicken and they don't eat chicken that isn't in nugget form, but they were so earnest and proud about the process that I really thought they'd at the very least give it the old college try.


It wasn't pretty.


There was begging.


Please no food! Please give me a cookie!


There was pleading.


I can't eat the food! My Band-aid will get dirty! (The Band-aid is on his leg. I don't understand this one.)


Despite the fact that it was a labor intensive process, I thoroughly enjoyed my new enchilada recipe.


My kitchen? A mess.


My major mistake--I should have anticipated the screaming, crying and carrying on that would accompany it and make a margarita to cushion the blow.

Live and learn.

Mangia!

I spent all day today in my kitchen. It seems that's the realistic amount of time it takes to feed oneself proper meals.

You see, I went to visit the Good Doc yesterday to get the results of my blood work. Always be wary if they call you and say, "Your test results are back. He'd like you to make an appointment to come in an go over them."

Gulp.

So off I went yesterday only to find that apparently I am deficient in insulin. My first thought is diabetes (my father is diabetic and I'm thinking it's only a matter of time) but according to the Good Doc what I have is the opposite of diabetes.

I left with a list as long as my arm of supplements I'm supposed to take along with strict instructions to avoid proceeded foods and refined carbs like sugar and white flour and replace them with whole-food, unrefined carbs. Sounds swell.

So I went to SweetBay and bought brownies to make myself feel better.

Seriously.

In concession though, I realize I eat a pathetic diet. Not that I eat bad foods, I just don't eat. It's hard with three rugrats--sometimes if I eat a slice of turkey while chopping some in a million little pieces for Lila, that's my lunch. But in my defense though when I DO eat, I do sup on whole wheat pasta, lunch on whole wheat bread, and breakfast on Khashi cereal or the whole wheat pancakes that Chey Rey makes every Sunday. So I feel unfairly labeled as a carb loader here.

For lunch today I made a most delicious tuna salad. Mine is a version of my sister's that includes minimal amounts of mayo, more heart-healthy olive oil, shredded carrots, onions, lemon and sometimes egg whites for added protein. I eat it with Wasa crackers topped with a vine ripe tomato and it hits the spot. Quite yummy. But takes T-I-M-E. And time is NOT on my side, no matter what the Rolling Stones say.

And for dinner, I've got an Asian Flank Steak and Noodles recipe that involves whole wheat angel hair pasta and broiling. The meat marinated all day. Not only was it damn tasy, but here I have another healthy, no refined sugar meal. For those counting that's TWO in one day. (Never mind the fact that I ate another brownie throughout the course of the day. Baby steps, my friends.)



In all seriousness, I was in the kitchen all day. To shred, slice, dice, prep, marinade, stir, clean, load the dishwasher, unload, dispose of the loaded trash bags, feed my kids their breakfast and lunch in between, referee the boys' fights, etc. etc. ad nauseum and there went my day. This is not sustainable.

But neither is a life without insulin I suppose.

A Post. Author: The Master of the Universe

My boys are picky eaters. And when I say "picky" I am taking about the "they only eat about five different items haven't consumed a vegetable in years make you want to tear your hair out from making five different meals every night" kind of picky.

Sometimes when I bring this topic up to another mom, I get this response:

"My kids will eat whatever I give them--they know there are no options."

Translation: Me and my non-picky kids are better than you and your picky kids. I am superior to you because I persisted and offered peas the requisite ten times before Little Johnny accepted them and now he eats them like candy! He is just so smart-advanced-genius-wonderful-flawless-perfect-superior! You are a sucker for not showing your kids who's boss and making them eat whatever!

Reality: 1. Perhaps your kid doesn't go completely postal when offered foods that are even slightly out of the norm for him, and 2. Perhaps your child doesn't have a big brother (who he emulates) that does the aforementioned postal going, therefore making him also refuse to eat anything "different." Cause in Little Brother world, if being just like your Big Brother is wrong, you don't want to be right.

Every couple of weeks, I cook a meal. And sometimes I decide that the meal I made is something a normal kid would totally eat, and therefore I decide I will try to make my kids eat it and be normal. Tonight I made chicken, potatoes and green beans. And onto the boys plates it went.

The natives were restless from the beginning. I got the typical afternoon inquiries:

"What's Daddy bringing home for dinner?" (I am well aware how bad it is that they think Daddy is the meal delivery man.)

And when I started rumbling in the kitchen, they come. "What are you making?"

When I flip on the oven light, show them perfectly normal looking chicken (without breading and not in the nugget form), I inform them this is their dinner as well.

And the freaking out begins.

Mason: "But I don't LOVE that kind of chicken." (Wails, wails, sobs, screams, wails.)

Cole: (sees Mason, repeats his actions: Wails, wails, sobs, screams, wails.)



I diced up the chicken, and split the boys apart, Rey with Cole in one room and me with Mason in the other. Let the games begin.

We take to bribery a lot. When it works, it works well, so why not? We were both armed with a pile of Goldfish cause my boys, they love 'em some carbs.

About ten minutes in, I was a little hopeless. I was developing a headache from the crying and was about to declare Operation Chicken Dinner a failure. And just when Mason was about to go to bed hungry, he asked me to feed him a piece. When he wants to give in but retain a little control, he asks to be fed. And I do it, cause whatever, at least he's eating. And just like that, for the first time in his life, my boy was eating chicken that wasn't a nugget.

Rey, however, was having no such luck with Cole. Soon Mason was on a blazing roll of chicken - Goldfish - chicken - Goldfish. He was smiling from ear to ear, amazed that this foreign chicken was actually tasty! I was feeling lucky, so I decided to move on and try my smooth moves on Cole. Rey and I traded spots.

Cole was surprisingly a bit tougher to crack. I decided he needed a different approach. I actually force-fed him a potato. Judge me if you will for prying that kid's jaw open and stuff in a spud, but it was like a gateway drug for the kid. Soon, he was gobbling down potatoes faster than I could shell out a Goldfish reward. Before I knew it, the chicken was gone as well, and the kid was eating green beans. One green bean, after another, after another! I swear, that boy has not consumed a vegetable since he was subsisting on pureed food. The fact that he was eating green beans was so amazing to me, I would have bet he'd sooner walk on water.

Mason did not eat the green beans, or potatoes for that matter. But the fact that he ate the chicken puts me on Cloud Nine.

I am proud. I mean like prideful boasting pleased delighted elated tickled-pink PROUD. I am looking forward to the days where I can make ONE meal and have everyone eat it with no complaints. I have a feeling those days are still a ways off, but a girl can dream.

I guess I better learn to cook...

In the meantime--Moms of picky eaters, bow down and worship, cause my kid ate green beans.

So until tomorrow, when mealtime becomes a battle again, I anoint myself Master of the Universe.

Cooking, or Lack Thereof

I has recently come to my attention that I can not cook.

At least not well.

I am a picky eater. I am not one to be satisfied with dining on tuna fish sandwiches or grilled cheese. I want a meal. And to me a good one includes a lot of ingredients.

So I watch a lot of Food TV. And I scour the internet for recipes. I buy the cookbooks that friends recommend. And I write a grocery list for umpteen items to make these ridiculous recipes that frankly I, as the mother of three, don't have the time to prepare. Let alone clean up after. I do have the best of intentions, but lately I'm lucky to make one meal out of the five that I bring home the grocery items for. And when I do manage to complete one of these ambitious meals, it tastes terrible and the kitchen looks like a hurricane hit it. Therefore, I recently declared that I can not cook, and I will not cook. Rey says I totally can cook, but not to make this crazy concoctions like the Shrimp Orzo something or other I made the other night. But he's perfectly happy eating a piece of chicken that's been grilled to within an inch of its life (hockey pucks I call them). I want more for myself--I'm worth it!

So more nights that not, we eat out. Or rather we eat in with takeout that Rey brings home. (We do not take three kids out to a restaurant every night--I am not certifiable. Not yet at least.) Dining out is the American way, right?

Well, recently it came to my attention the type of damage this is doing. The other day, in between the ungodly time period nap time and dinner time, when you can almost hear the seconds ticking because time is passing so slowly, Mason says to me, "Mommy, what's Daddy bringing home for dinner?"

It was like a knife to my heart. This boy thinks food comes from the front door, not the kitchen door.

In my defense, I wasn't always like this. I used to cook nearly every night. But after we moved back from Key West and Rey was still there, it made no sense to cook without him here, especially since the boys don't really eat what we eat so I was basically cooking for myself. (They are picky people, something we try to work on from time to time, but can't manage to work out.) When he moved back, not cooking became the status quo.

And so here we are.

I need a takeout intervention.