If You Love Them, Feed Them

Last night at the dinner table: My insanely picky eight-year-old cooperated, sort of. Sometimes Mamma has to pull rank to get things done.  

Under duress, he scrunched up his chubby little nose—whose tip gets tiny kisses from me whenever he'll tolerate it—narrowed his huge brown eyes, and ate a small bite of beef and gravy. 

8: Not too bad...kinda pretty good. 

Me: Good job, buddy. 

He then went on: Mamma, why can Santa bring big gifts but Cupid can’t? 

With no good explanation, I told him to Google capitalism. 

Dinnertime in my home isn’t an exact replica of my childhood, where my mother held no quarter. There was no option to even think of rebelling. My mom, a bonafide Appalachian beauty with a hot bod and a hot head of bottle-born auburn hair, is the ultimate nurturer of children, animals, and anyone who doesn't cross her. I have followed in her footsteps, mostly; my storm is a bit calmer due to a dose of my dad's rational nature. In the 80s, Mom worked for an Iranian gynecologist in the tiny downtown of my hometown, returning home with dry-witted tales of his accent butchering the pronunciation of various female body parts and gynecologic afflictions. My mom has always been funnier than she knows, oftentimes at the expense of my dad, like the time he saw a commercial for Vagisil and asked why they chose that name. Mom: So people won’t brush their teeth with it, Guy. 

On most evenings of my youth, dinner was a family affair, with my dad, mom, big brother, and me at the table. Mom rolled out all the home-cooking favorites, like chicken and dumplings, pot roast, and pork chops. Although I stopped eating red meat and pork 30 years ago, living in Memphis with the constant scent of sweet barbecue nearly broke me. Nearly. Sometimes I stick to my guns for no good reason. Despite years without, I could still get down with some roast and pork chops, but I probably won’t. 

In my home, food has been a battlefield. My kids thoroughly resent my healthy ways, reminding me every chance they get that other moms let their kids eat all the junk food whenever they want, to which I say, Cool, go live with them and let me know how it goes. Then I call on my two cousins to complain about how hard this is, because who else has your back like another mom who loves you. 

War stories aside, my boys and I have managed to bond in the kitchen. We love a game of Nat Geo trivia or playing “Would you rather” over a meal. In our latest round, I managed to sneak in a life lesson to my eight-year-old, who asked “Would you rather not know a lie or know a lie.” Me: “I like to be told the truth, even if it’ll make me feel yucky—and I want you to always tell the truth too.” I’m also teaching them to cook in hopes they’ll grow up to be self-sufficient young boys who can take some heat off their busy mom. I’ve taught my 12-year-old how to make  his own burger, egg in a hole, and pan-fried chicken. The three of us have made homemade tortillas and pizza dough and baked dozens of cookies. There are photos and videos of our kitchen adventures, which I scroll through often because I’m a nostalgia junkie, even if the days past were only last year. 

Like my mom, I’m a pretty good cook, with a failure every now and then. A feminist bone in my body keeps me from imitating her old-fashioned ways too closely, but I’ve held onto the parts that matter most: If you love them, feed them. If they screw you, give them hell.