I’ve been seeing a lot of stuff on TV about ‘hiding’ veggies in drinks, muffins, cookies and everything except Dad’s overshoes.
It makes me wonder why.
Maybe my kids were the exceptions (I doubt it), but we never had any of this, ‘I’m not gonna eat that!’ talk at the dining table. With our nice big family, they were all just interested in getting dinner on their plates, and if someone—say, one of the ‘new kids’—didn’t want something, all the others were quick to laugh and look at each other and then say, “Can I have yours, then?” It didn’t take long for the ‘new kid’ to start wondering whether he might not be missing something good.
But let’s face it, everyone has something they would rather not eat, and a parent has to be sensitive to those preferences. My way to deal with it was to allow each child one thing, and one thing alone, that he really disliked and needn’t eat.
For Kip it was little green peas; for Hans it was green beans; Mark turned down liver (well, he hated the way I cooked it; he loves the way Kimberly cooks it, and God bless them both—the good news is, he’s finally eating liver, and that’s what I wanted in the first place.)
Grettie never wanted mixed veggies but was too polite to say so until she was much older, and Theresa and Beth loved everything, as did all the others.
When I served the dinners, I would leave the offending veggie off the plate of the child who disliked it. I always made a point of saying that everyone had a right to avoid one thing, and finally they whole bunch would say it before I got to say it, so I knew they had memorized the precept. You gotta eat Everything But One Thing.
But I have a real problem with ‘hiding’ veggies, as if they are somehow something to be ashamed of, or as if—rather than face the issue squarely--the parent would rather lie to her children.
I never lied to mine, even if the truth was unpleasant. I would say, “I know you don’t like carrots, honey, but the fact is, this is what’s for supper. Why don’t you choose one veggie, starting tomorrow, that you never will have to eat again? And I will respect that and not serve it to you.”
Believe me, that’s an offer no child can refuse.
I’m not Sicilian for nothing.
Now, at some time, some little smarty-pants is going to demand several banned veggies, or all veggies. Say to them, “Honey, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m the adult and you are the child. When you are the adult, you will make the rules, and your children will have to do what you say; but as it happens, I’m the rule-maker around here, right now, and your choice is one banned veggie, or eat ‘em all. Take your pick.”
It was amazing how fast those kids could come up with a decision.
I’ve never seen this procedure to fail, but then, I haven’t met all the children in the world, either, and I’m not responsible for how everyone else raises children. Do what works, as long as it’s moral, legal and not fattening, that’s my motto. (Well…it can be a little bit fattening...)
If your child has a problem with a certain veggie, and you have yard room to do so, why not take a few feet off of your flowerbed and raise veggies that are ‘sort of like’ the hated vegetable? If they don’t care for parsnips, raise carrots, whose feathery foliage makes a wonderful edging plant, even if you never eat them at all. Just don’t be surprised to find some kids like mine crawling around your flower garden having lunch, one of these fine days, that’s all I have to say.
So many veggies make beautiful garden additions. ‘Bright Lights’ Swiss Chard, for one, with its red, gold, orange and green juicy stems, is fantastic planted in a big pot with red-and-cream (or red-and-green) coleus, hot pink petunias and red pentas; green beans, with their pretty pea-like blossoms, are another, and even coarse, rough artichokes, standing in the back of the flower bed at four feet tall, can produce wonderful edibles, and look impressive, too. Ditto for asparagus.
Sometimes the plants are so attractive, the kids forget they don’t like eating them.
Children usually have a hard time with spinach. I’m not surprised. My mother used to open a can of spinach, and the sight of that slimy, green, stringy veggie slithering into the pot always gave me pause. I ate it, but in my day, kids did what they were told--
There was no ‘or else.’
You did what you were told and that was it.
Then I grew up and learned what spinach was supposed to taste like, and I was royally hooked!
I have that recipe and a recipe for Sicilian Spinach Pie that my children and grandchildren dare not take to schoo. They never get to finish it, because—I kid you not!--their classmates always crowd around and yell, “Gimme some spinach pie! Please, please, please! No, me! Just one bite—please! No, not him, me!” Sometimes the teachers have to intervene. And even they ask for “just a taste.” I’m serious.
As I’m writing this, one of my grand-daughters just confided that the school even tried to make their own version of Spinach Pie, but that when they asked her, she said, “It’s really good, for this kind of Spinach Pie—but it doesn’t taste anything like as good as my Nana’s.”
Well, they did ask,
You can find the recipe at my blog, www.eatingyourgarden.blogspot.com. I’ve never seen a child yet—or anyone else--who could resist it after the first bite. And I call it ‘Spinach Pie’ on purpose. It’s what’s called in screenwriting, “on the nose dialogue.” Bad in screenwriting; delicious on the table. I make no bones about what it is and let that fantastic smell convince them whether or not it’s good. But I would never try to camouflage it, or pretend it wasn’t there.
I never lie to children, or anyone else, for that matter.
Instead of hiding veggies in ‘ruse foods,’ why not tell it straight up (e.g., ”I’m making spinach pie tonight, and you are going to absolutely die when you taste this!”) Now if you have a showoff, or a latent Zak Efron (you should be so lucky!) they may grab their throats and gag and croak, “I’m dying now! Spinach Pie!!! Yuk, yuk, blah, gag, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. Ignore it until you get to the table. Make him a peanut butter sandwich instead.
Really, I’m not kidding! PB&J.
Let it sit cold and lonely on his plate while the others shovel fragrant, creamy, luscious wedges of Spinach Pie onto their plates, along with creamed corn (or corn-on-the-cob), a big fresh salad, applesauce and whatever else you served. He can watch them eat it.
When the other kids start raving about the pie and he tries to weasel a bite from a sib, say sweetly, “No, honey, Colin can’t have that. It made him feel sick this afternoon.” And let him watch the others enjoy it. Look him straight in the eye and grin.
Sweetly, of course.
He may act like he doesn’t care, but chances are, next time you’re making something new, he’ll wait to taste it before he launches into the death scene.
You may have a child who says, “Mom, spinach pie doesn’t sound so good.” To which I reply, “I know, it sounds awful, doesn’t it? Like dragon eyeballs, or earwax ice-cream--“ by this time, he’ll probably chime in with more disgusting things.
Have fun with it but don’t go too far.
When he gets really awful, you can always grab your throat and pretend you’re dying—croak out a goodbye. (Don't make it too realistic!) Remind him that you haven’t made dessert yet, so he’d better save you. And that to save your life, the Evil Whatever has decreed that he has to knock off the disgusting jokes and also eat four bites of whatever it is he doesn’t want to eat.
Remind him that even a dog will eat four bites.
If he gets angry or just isn’t buying it, drop the fun and get serious. Apologize for playing with him. Tell him you thought he was mature enough to play, too; and let then it go. No grudges, either!
Now, if the child doesn’t want any, don’t force him, don’t bribe him, don’t do anything except say, “May I have yours, then?” I always add, “The more fool you!” and grin as I eat it. I’m usually backed up by my Beloved and half a dozen of the other kids, who want some more, too.
It may take a few times, but afterward, they’ll often say, “Well, I’ll just try a little.” Shrug. Don’t get visibly excited. Say, “If there’s any left over, you can have a taste, honey. I wouldn’t want you to eat something you don’t like.” And I don’t; I just want him to like Everything But One Thing.
Don’t react, no matter whether he likes it or not. It’s not a life or death matter if he never eats spinach. It would be nice if he’d eat it, but it’s not worth getting all worked up about. Dinnertime should be pleasant and fun.
Psychology works if you use it right.
Just don’t lie to him.
Never, ever, lie to him.
If he makes a fuss about food, maybe he’s using that as an excuse to get some attention. In that case, try to spend more time with him—ten or fifteen focused minutes are miles better than an hour of impatient finger-tapping or watching the TV beyond his left shoulder as he pours out his heart.
Be sincerely engaged with his interests and the important issues he’ll tell you about, such as, “—and I passed by, and she said, “Duh!” like, real loud and mean, and Josh laughed when she said that, and I said, like, “Jerk!” to him but she thought I said it to her, and she told Emily that I—“
Trust me, I’ve had sixty years of listening to that sort of pre-teen and teen narrative, and I still can speak and write a lucid sentence.
It’s my proof for the existence of God.
That and the fact that nine of my children were teen-agers for three years running.
Nine of ‘em.
For three full years.
Yep.
You can survive almost anything. And love it!
Even getting your kids to eat veggies!
I promise.
