A Day for a Dog

I have a confession to make. Today I ate a hot dog. I haven’t done that in like, oh, maybe forever. That’s because I don’t like hot dogs. Of course, I love the idea of eating Fenway Franks and Dodger Dogs as much as I love baseball itself, so it’s not without great shame that I forgo the American icon and order a pretzel at the ballpark. My aversion to the hot dog was a particular disadvantage as a child (back then, I didn’t like peanut butter either). So when lunchtime came at a friend’s house, I prayed for grilled cheese! But today, I ordered a slender, gently steamed hot dog wrapped in a delightfully airy bun. The Wonder Bread kind that is stark white and packed with more bad carbs than you can count. And I drenched it with yellow mustard and watery green relish squeezed from tiny plastic pouches. I liked it. In fact, I may have liked it a lot.

But wait. That’s not all. I have another confession to make.

I also ate a bag of Cheetos. This may not seem like such a big deal either, but if you know me, and you know my philosophy towards food, you know I’ve been railing against Cheetos now for a long, long time. Even before I began my cooking school, Kitchen Kid, I made Chester the Cheetah the scapegoat for all things bad in our nation’s children’s diet. But the hot dog “deal” (it was $6.99) came with a bag of chips, and when that dashing cheetah winked at me from behind his seductive black shades, I figured what the heck. I’d already crossed over to the dark side with the hot dog, there’d be no going back. In minutes my fingers were stained neon orange – the telltale mark of a Cheeto fanatic -- and I was in some kind of junk food euphoria. They were so good I had a hard timing sharing just one. It wasn’t until my family threatened to take a photo of me gorging on those crunchy bits – blackmail for the next time I blogged about the sins of the Frito-Lay company – that I realized just what I was doing. I had suspended my idealism about what food should look like, how it should taste, where it should come from, and what it should be made of. I was eating like the average American kid.

Let me back up.

My in-laws are visiting from New Hampshire, and we decided to spend the day at Universal Studios after my mother-in-law got wind that Terri Hatcher and Felicity Huffman would be filming on Wisteria Lane. And like everyone else who goes on death-defying 4-D rides and moves through lines at a sloth’s pace, we got hungry. As anyone who has ever been to a theme park, or a ball park, or a mall, or an airport, or a road-side rest-stop knows all too well, our options were far from healthy. Pepperoni pizza. Romaine lettuce swimming in dressing. Cinnabon. Chicken fingers. Hot dogs. Cheeseburgers. Churros. Cotton candy. But I anticipated this! I had been toting around a granola bar, some peanuts, and a bottle of water in my purse, waiting for this very moment to strike. But what was I going to do, nibble my organic snacks while my family ripped into a heart attack of saturated fat? It was while I surveyed my predicament -- my devotion to kids’ healthy cooking, the growing movement to bring an organic garden to the White House lawn, and a genuine concern for the future of our national food supply – that my craving for a hot dog overcame me. That’s when I ordered up 6 inches of “all-natural” beef and some MSG laced “cheese” puffs. They didn’t tell me the $6.99 combo deal came with a side of guilt.

But, um, I wasn’t that guilty. Really. It’s probably been, I don’t know, 5? 10? years since I last ate a Cheeto. Maybe a lifetime since I finished a hot dog. And while I wouldn’t choose to eat this way every day, (like many school children in cafeterias across America -- schools may ban soda, but bags of chips have been for sale at lunch in every school at which I’ve worked) today I learned it didn’t kill me.

Even as Wal-Mart markets its new line of organic produce, sustainable eating is still considered an expensive luxury fit only for the Prius-driving culinary elite. It shouldn’t be. (And considering the prices of theme park food, I honestly believe healthy food is accessible to all.) But those of us who live and preach the world of healthy, sustainable, deliberate eating sometimes forget that it’s okay to have a little transgression here and there. We spend a lot of time at Farmers’ Markets, turn our noses up at ingredient lists cluttered with preservatives, and have been known to walk down grocery store aisles like a great-grandmother listening to rap music -- totally aghast at the products for sale. Just last week my mom, recently diagnosed with osteoporosis and determined not to let the disease get me, handed me a chocolate calcium “chew” and ordered I eat one each day. “But mom,” I cried reading the label, “These are loaded with high fructose corn syrup, sugar, and dyes. Why would I EVER get my calcium that way?!”

Today I ate a little outside my comfort zone, and not only did I learn something from it, I found I liked it a tiny bit, too. The culinary elite could take a page from this. Rather than pine for local bok choy, dreaming of watching kids run around school gardens instead of the Simpsons ride, and judging the families wearing “All You Can Eat!” passes around their necks, once in a while it’s okay to embrace the experience and culture of being an American kid and lick orange Cheeto crumbs from your fingers.

Not to Be Picky...

The other day I was reading Oliver's Fruit Salad to hungry tot-chefs in my Kindergarten Books-for-Cooks class at Franklin Elementary School. The story is about a boy named Oliver, who -- having recently helped his grandpa harvest juicy grapes and delicate pears from a backyard garden -- refuses to eat the fruit his mom serves for breakfast. Nothing from a can, thank you very much. No jams either. And please, no juice. So off Oliver and his mom go to the supermarket, where they ooh and ahh at fresh fruit from pineapples and melons to oranges and apples. At home, mom empties the grocery bags onto the kitchen table.

"Now," said Mom. "You can eat an apple. Or a pear. Or a plum.
It's not in a jar or a can. It's all fresh, so help yourself."
Oliver shook his head. "No thank you," he said.
"I just helped Grandpa. I didn't eat any of the fruit. I don't like fruit."

Sound familiar? Sure. The very particular mandates and quid-pro-quos of a picky eater.

Perhaps you know one. Perhaps she prefers her noodles plain with a touch of butter and as much cheese as you'll allow -- NO SAUCE, EVER! She likely prefers her carrots raw and PLEASE DON'T LET THEM TOUCH THE CHICKEN FINGERS! Perhaps she'll begrudgingly eat her peas, but ONLY with a side of promise… of chocolate decadence cupcakes and vanilla ice cream. Your picky eater might even prefer, in fact DEMAND, frozen dino nuggets over your labor intensive, free range, organic, perfectly cooked famous chicken dish.

That afternoon I asked the kids in my class if they happened to know any "picky eaters" like Oliver. Lacey -- who just last week meticulously removed every trace of vegetable from her Wild Things Bagel Creature -- thoroughly contemplated the question with a scrunched up forehead and proclaimed, "I've heard that word before but I can't remember what it means."

Yeah, right. I bet you've heard it. And I bet you know exactly what it means.

That's because it seems like "picky eater" has become a variety of diet. There are vegetarians, vegans, locavores, and now, picky eaters. Google “picky eater” and you’ll get results from the Mayo Clinic, support groups for adult picky eaters, tips from youth nutritionists, and endless books on Amazon.com. I talk to plenty of moms each day who tell me right off the bat, "my son is a VERY picky eater" and then divulge the numerous ways Jonny shows-off his habit as if it were a badge of honor.

Since when did being a picky eater become a legitimate way to describe someone's food habits? Are we too accepting of this ‘condition’? Do parents enable the behavior by becoming the preferred caterer for the Picky Eater Club? And if kids aren't picky at age 2 or 3, what makes them outrageously picky by 5?

Take Felix here. Happily chowing down on guacamole straight from his backyard avocado tree. Will it be just a matter of months before he utters his very first complete sentence, which also just happens to be "YUCK! I WON'T EAT THAT!! I HATE GREEN FOODS!"

I’m not suggesting children everywhere should be happy eating tuna casserole for dessert and Brussels sprouts from their lunch box. But I do think at some point we crossed the line in how we view and embrace children’s eating habits. Picky eating is very likely an acceptable phase in a toddler’s development. Sometime after the age of 2 or 3 kids may even decide the foods they once loved, often the very same food their parents eat -- Indian curries, snap peas, goat cheese – now make them kick and scream and gag at the table -- even foods they've never even tried. But by the time the child is going to school, picky eating should become a diet meant to be broken.

I bring this all up, because I recently came across The Yummy Mummy. She doesn't hold back, and she's pretty hilarious. A few months back she posted a piece at Imperfect Parent, the dead-on, sarcastic, "The 10 Ways to Have Your Very Own Picky Eater". At Number 10:

Remind your kid what a problem eater he is. Kids love that. In fact, tell him in front of guests. Call him “picky”, fussy”, “difficult at dinner time” or say things like, “He’s like this because he’s adopted,” and my personal favorite, “He’s just like his father,” and then, roll your eyes dramatically. You will only have to label him a few times before he sullenly looks at his plate of food, pushes it away and demands to be hand-fed McDonald's French fries.

If this works, you can go the next step and tell him he is “bad” or “a demon seed” and remind him that he was an “accident”.

You can read the rest of the article and learn how to create your very own picky eater, here.

Okay, so back to Oliver and his fruit salad. As the title suggests, the story ends with Mom, Grandpa, and Oliver slicing and dicing all sorts of wonderful fruit for fruit salad. And of course, a surprised Oliver proclaims, "I like fruit salad!" And after three helpings... "YUMMY!" he says.

So I asked the kids in my class if there was a moral to this story. Without any prompting, 5 year-old Lacey, the prime contender for the picky eater club, perked right up: "It's like when you don't like a food, but your mom makes you try it. And then you actually like it after all, but you don't want your parents to know. So you make a face."

Hmmm.... just what I thought.

The best ways to wean a picky eater?
1. Cook with your kids. Get them involved in the process and they’ll crave the product.
2. Offer choice. Choice is empowering, so give your kids options rather than forceful mandates.
3. Choose healthy, colorful ingredients with tasty preparations.
Think roasting, homemade vinaigrettes, stir-fries, and veggie-art.
4. Set a good example. Why would your daughter ever eat tofu if you won’t try it either? Still picky? Dr. Sears offers loads more tips here.

Growing Up Gourmet Goes to Print

I'm excited to share that Growing Up Gourmet will be appearing on a regular basis in our local paper, the Santa Monica Daily Press.

You can check out my new column every other Thursday on the food page.

In fact, you can read it online too, at the SMDP's new user-friendly website.