I remember beaming with pride, watching the “Bring Your Kid to Work Day” video recorded in my first year at Urner Barry. They asked each of the children to share what their favorite dish was that their parents cooked at home. My 9-year-old daughter fiddled with her fingers and smiled as she spoke of mom’s steak with chimichurri. When my son was 1 (he is going to be 6), he used to make meals out of avocado and loved curried vegetables.

Today, it seems like my kids are plotting against me, choosing opposite foods they enjoy each week and laughing diabolically at my efforts to keep up. And yes, I know, I know — tastes change, but hear me out.

I have never shied away from presenting my children with daring, ethnic, grown-up or spicy food; they should try everything. I have never catered to the whims of my children to appease their latest obsession. I don’t choose restaurants based on whether they serve chicken tenders and macaroni and cheese. I am not that mom. I just love food. I mean, I really, really love it. I love to cook it, eat it, read about it, watch shows about it, and apparently write about it too. And I really want my kids to love it too. So, what gives?

As I joyfully prepare the extravagant meals that I put on the table for my family (when I have time for that kind of effort), I try not to fret over which one will not enjoy dinner. I should mention that I have tried it all, too. Have them help plan meals, check. Have them help cook and get them interested in food, check. Pretend we are playing Chopped and ask them to think critically about the flavors and ingredients, check. I try to comfort myself with the articles I have read that tell me to have them try things seven times, not to force things and make eating a negative experience, and not to take it personally. But there is an obscure memory that always kind of haunts me when I work hard only to be snubbed by my own offspring.

Years ago, I don’t know exactly how many, there was an episode of Top Chef Masters that starred the Playboy girlfriends. One of them, Holly, was having a pool party and the chefs were challenged to make canapes for the event. Holly took the wind out of everyone’s sails when she announced that she did not like garlic or onions: Panic ensued. In the end, one of the chefs used the ingredients anyway, and Holly had no idea and greatly enjoyed the dish until the judges told her. What I took from that episode was that if you prepare something correctly and deliciously, anyone should enjoy it, right? Wrong.

What’s a girl to do when she serves perfectly medium rare prime strips that are crusty and aromatic, lovingly basted in Gordon Ramsay fashion with garlic, rosemary and thyme, rested on a bed of mashed potatoes that would make Joel Robuchon smile with a side of Ina Garten’s parmesan roasted asparagus, only to receive a grimace or two? Nothing. I serve it. And I serve it with excitement and eagerness to share with them beautiful food memories that I hope they will learn to appreciate with time. I don’t offer alternatives and I don’t force a clean plate. I just offer them my best attempt at tasty dishes, and hope for the best while my husband and I dig in.

Let the record show that I don’t purposefully cook meals that feature foods my children detest. Neither of them like seafood; my daughter has a thing about mayonnaise (so do I, really); and my son won’t touch sweet potatoes (I know, weird). And if one of my kids tastes a turkey sandwich and squeals with delight, I will be sure to buy that turkey again. That is, until I serve it again and they declare they no longer like what they did last week. How do I win this war? Your guess is as good as mine.

But I can’t pretend that it doesn’t grind my gears (yes, that was a Family Guy reference). As a kid, we ate what was on the table. And let me tell you, it was not always good. My dad was a single father and tried his best, but his best was um … the worst. First, almost every meal was venison. We were a hunting family with multiple chest freezers of the stuff, which was great and cost effective. You want a burger? Venison burger. You want spaghetti? Venison Bolognese that would bring tears to your eyes (not the good kind). How about some jerky? There was a dehydrator in the barn and nothing great ever came out of that thing. The highlight of my childhood of dad’s cooking was Betty Crocker’s scalloped potatoes from the box (thank you so much, Betty). But I always cleaned my plate, always. And I always told my dad how good dinner was. And I was happy to have a full belly.

But I guess this generation and my family today is different and for that, I am grateful. My kids have the distinct privilege of food security and quite frankly, some food luxury. I have the ability and the knowledge to buy high quality ingredients and proteins and happen to be a pretty damn good cook. They snack on feta and olives and get from-scratch multi-layer cakes of every variety for birthdays. And for the most part, they are good eaters and more importantly, healthy.

So even though my daughter announced this week that the texture of chicken no longer suits her, I will press on. Stay tuned.

Food fight

Join for free* to continue reading.