In an unexpected flurry of Mardi Gras enthusiasm, I recently decided that Wolfi and I should make some crêpes together for an afternoon treat. He has been venturing into the kitchen with me lately thanks in part to the purchase over the Christmas holidays of a blue-and-white miniature apron. I have also provided for him a little wooden step stool, painted red to match the Aga, which means that he can reach the kitchen counters quite comfortably.
Crêpes were my choice not only because of Carnival but also because I have resolved this year to confront some of my culinary bugaboos. These are things which I had mastered to some degree or another on a conventional stove but which I have been hesitant to try on the Aga. Most of them -- puddings, pastry creams, curds and crèmes -- involve prolonged use of the stove top and exact temperatures. With the crêpes, I fretted that the simmering plate would lose heat before I had gotten through all of the batter.
Viewed objectively, our mother-son crepe baking was quite successful. Wolfi was delighted to stir the silky batter and to watch at my elbow as I fried the pancakes up in my trusty Teflon pan. The simmering plate held its heat quite nicely, and while the crêpes themselves were perhaps a bit thicker than they should have been, they tasted delicious.
Or so I thought. Wolfi, however, was of a different opinion. While we were making our way through the batter, I plated one up for him to try. Still warm from the pan, it was covered in melted butter and flecked with brown crunchy specks of turbinado sugar. Here we are, I thought. Cooking together and eating those kinds of "nursery foods" one always reads about in novels and old cookery books. Ahh yes. Celebrating holidays. Ushering in new seasons. Living in the moment. This is what parenthood is all about.
Unfortunately, Wolfi has not yet read the same books I have. Rather than gobble up his crêpe and plead for another, what did he do? He promptly spat it out onto the counter, butter, sugar and all. The parts that did not exit his mouth immediately he then proceeded to peel off his tongue with the kind of attention to detail only a toddler can master. No crêpes for him thank you very much. And where has that package of Jell-O instant pudding gotten to, anyway?
Marc tells me not to take these moments too personally. Wolfi came into the world a finicky eater, and no amount of cajoling will change that. But I know it is personal. I, too, was a picky eater throughout my childhood. Wolfi's outright refusal to eat just about anything I make for him -- be it crêpes, a grilled cheese sandwich or even a plate of homemade chicken fingers -- is the universe getting back at me for all the frustration I caused my own mother.
But if that is as bad as my Karma gets in this life, I suppose I can handle it. Besides, the sight of Wolfi in the kitchen with his apron on might just make up for a whole lifetime of uneaten crêpes -- butter, sugar and all.
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Precious daughter of mine, this is just the best. You were a finicky eater. Hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs. Then green beans, green beans, green beans. Never anything like a crepe. So , don't worry. You are doing the right thing!
ReplyDeleteAin't pay back awful?!?!
ReplyDeleteI'll eat your crepes, a grilled cheese AND some homemade chicken fingers -
Have a great year -
Dallas Greer (Dal)
It must run in the family...because I married the pickiest eater Eileen ever saw.
ReplyDeleteThere IS hope -- apparently, she said to Neal more than once, "You wait...you're going to marry some girl who is going to not want to eat hamburgers every night for the rest of her life..." And while we do eat plenty of hamburgers, Neal has vastly expanded what he is at least willing to try. With a few foods, there is a line in concrete, and he is NOT going to eat them. No way, no shape, no how. But there's a lot of foods he now eats - if only because with four kids with allergies, I'm not running a short order kitchen. It means we're having rice noodles with made with potato milk-based white sauce, butternut squahs, and nutritional yeast instead of the blue box of mac & cheese. (Though I do take pity on him some nights and make that when it's just us.) Some things are a surprise hit; some attempts, I get a polite "It's good for what it is..." which really means "Make it again and I'm eating cereal."
Eventually, they will eat. Or at least, that's what I tell myself as his sons eat nothing but hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs...I've already turned into my mother-in-law..."Luke, some day, you're going to meet a girl..."
Well written, Bienchen! I was not a picky eater at all, but I was a hellion. I was so stubborn and stong willed that I would dare my mother to take away my TV privileges and then announce that I would be in my room reading a book. The real reason I call my mother, " Mother" as opposed to "Mom" or "Mommy" is that my response to her screams of "Jenniferrrrrrrrr!" with an exaggerated "r" on the end after her discovery of yet another of my escapades, like smeering the entire kitchen with peanut butter in an attempt to surprise her with peanut butter ball cookies, was to scream back, "Motherrrrrrrrrrrrr!" My mother already cursed me as a child to have as difficult a child as I was. If I ever get to have a child, I can only imagine magnitude of the karma, which will kick me in the butt!
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