Bon Appetit Mes Enfants

We raised our glasses to travel.

The planning began last week. The girls created a menu and made lists. They consulted cookbooks to help organize their thoughts and then prepared, with no help from me and little from their father, a French meal complete with printed menus, a wine list and creatively delicious food. The significance of this, one day after the Paris attacks, is not lost.  That they started this process long before the attacks happened is perhaps most relevant to me: a meal created not to honor France and the tragedy of Friday but one that reflects the girls' appreciation and understanding of other cultures.

Three years ago we spent two weeks in France, visiting dear friends, traveling to the Normandy coast and baking in the August heat of Paris. The girls were seven and thrown into life in France with a limited net. First they learned to order milk in a restaurant, "lait s'il vous plait". They asked directions and found their way on the Metro. We handed them menus in French and suggested they find a word they understood and go from there.

They ordered their own food, in French (ish), and discovered new things to love (mussels) and things they expected to love and did not (croque monsieur). We did not seek out American restaurants and in fact left one when handed the American menu for children: hot dogs, chicken fingers and macaroni and cheese. We did not travel across the ocean to be immersed in American culture.

Traveling opens their minds to places and people beyond what they find in the neighborhood or down the street. Living briefly in another country forces them to the outside and teaches them to adjust to the changes inherent in international travel: new language, culture, currency, customs. And traveling makes places that might be far away seem much closer, especially when one beautiful place is attacked in the most cruel and horrible way.

We will continue to travel, continue to show our children that there is a world outside of Chicago, a world that is almost always good. It is a world that they should see and experience and enjoy; one that will send them back with memories and photographs and not just an appreciation for what they find but also what it means to be home. No terrorists can take that freedom away.

The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page. St. Augustine

Father's Day Tradicion

When dinner was dad's choice, on his birthday or father's day, he would choose pork tenderloin, Spanish rice and banana cream pie. He rarely wavered and, I think, preferred his mother's birthday meal to all others. Once I progressed beyond Minute Rice and microwave popcorn I did my best to learn how to make my grandmother's version of Dad's favorite meal. The pie portion was always a disaster but in time I was able to put together a decent pork tenderloin, despite having not eaten pork in ten years, and some very nice tasting Spanish rice.

Yesterday morning the girls and I wandered the aisles at the grocery store, trying to come up with something interesting to make for dinner as Jack, who usually opts for dinner out, choose spending Father's Day at home. He's a meat eater married to a quasi vegetarian so on this day, and his birthday, I will consider the idea of perhaps, but not always, preparing meat. It was the mangoes that inspired me, "what if we make a pork tenderloin on the grill, we can have fish also, and then make tacos?". We bought avocados, cilantro and tortillas, plus jicama and cucumber for a salad.

As Kate and I put together a marinade for the pork I decided to add rice to our meal, using a salsa verde to make a green Spanish rice. It was then that I noticed, without intention I was creating my own version of my Dad's favorite meal, and my Mexico loving father would have welcomed my stuffing his beloved pork tenderloin into a corn tortilla to be topped with tomatoes, cilantro and crema.

The one who cheered for me most and yelled at me often (most notably on that decision to not eat meat) still impacts the choices I make every day. Salud Dad, it was a most delicious dinner, but we skipped the pie. Best to end on a high note and ice cream cones are just down the block.

Pho Pad Lo Mein Roll

"Mom, I'm having a problem with the Asian people".

"Beg pardon?"

Kate nodded in agreement, "I know, I always think F.U. when we eat Thai food".

"I'm sorry?"

In less than 20 seconds they had rocked the core of my Asian soul. The always effective old adage "but some of our best friends are Asian" was not going to erase what I had just heard.

My usual tactic is to blather on incessantly, creating great confusion while accomplishing little. Showing great restraint, I let this conversation continue, uninterrupted.

"Exactly. The only one I think I always get is Japanese", said Mary.
"Japanese is easy, sushi, and sometimes noodles. But F.U., I love that, and I can never remember what that is", answered Kate.
"F.U. is Vietnam, that one I know", from the now Asian food confident Mary.

"Kate, by F.U. do you mean Pho, the soup?"

And she did. The problem, it seems, is not with Asian people but with keeping track of what Asian people eat, and in what country.

Tomorrow we dim sum, and as a refresher, that's China guys. Happy New Year!

The Cauliflower Incident

"When the cauliflower incident happened my confidence in your cooking decreased by about 70%", said Kate.

Never one to hide vegetables in soup or tomato sauce, not one to smother those glorious herbaceous plants in gooey cheese, I boldly present my produce as an integral part of the meal, never regulated to a wimpy side dish, subject to the nagging mother mantra "eat your vegetables".

In my quest to develop the appreciation for cauliflower that I so enjoy I have roasted and stir fried, I have grilled and chopped for salad, all to dismal reviews. This time would be different, I was trying something new, and, against my own vegetable code of ethics, burying the evidence.

I pureed the raw florets, adding capers, garlic, lemon, roasted pine nuts, rosemary, Parmesan and olive oil. Tossed with warm fettuccine, I was convinced that I had found the one, the very thing that would bring them all over to my side, the side of glowing devotion for that white lumpy stalk. Kate, who will try anything, dove right in. "Mom, this is not my favorite", nor was it mine.

What was a culinary miss has now morphed into an incident, and my child who was once willing to try anything is now, understandably, a bit hesitant when faced with something new. Lesson learned; being sneaky is never the best idea, cauliflower mush is simply bad, and the Thai place around the corner has super fast emergency delivery.

Honesty is always the best policy.

Dim Sum and Then Some (Thing Horrible)

"If your father was still alive he would send me a gift certificate to Gibsons."

Jack, my born and raised Nebraska husband, was not thrilled with the Sunday night dinner options.

In addition to the delicious sushi cake, there were noodles topped with edamame and peanut sauce (cooked to a near paste like form), and steamed whole wheat vegetable buns.

Even the girls, who generally like everything I offer, were less than enthusiastic when presented with the buns. "What's in that?", from Kate, who rarely checks the contents before diving in. "I'm not sure, could be spinach, it's green," said Mary, picking delicately at her warm bun. "Maybe can I share one with someone?", asked Kate. Mary jumped at this opportunity, "Here! Have part of mine!".

"You know, these noodles would have been so much better with tofu," said the cook.

"Really? Tofu is what you think this needs?", said the Husker.

Culinarily, it was not my best weekend. Saturday night I accidentally poached shrimp in butter and orange juice, resulting in a fibrous glop of crustacean, smelling sweet and tasting overwhelmingly of citrus scented dirty bath water . Not even a warm tortilla and avocado could save us from the pleasingly pink shellfish. Sunday morning I reached for cornmeal but found polenta, creating light, airy and oddly gritty waffles.

Saturday morning we went out, for dim sum, in celebration of Chinese New Year. The scallop and chive dumplings, pork shumai, rice noodle rolls, and lotus leaf sticky rice being by far the best thing offered this weekend, and that was before I whipped up mushy noodles and thin sushi cake for dinner.

"I'm going to send a picture of this to my family, my entire family, to see if anyone I am related to can identify this as dinner".

Oh Jack, maybe they need to get out more. I'd recommend Furama on North Broadway, anywhere but here.

Close But No Arugula

Hands waved wildly in the air, the group burst into a fit of giggles and Kate was right in the middle of the madness. Wonderful, as she occasionally has difficulty connecting with her classmates, the antics of first graders being somewhat frivolous to my child who prefers Betsy Ross to Fancy Nancy. Her teacher was encouraged as Kate, her frequent lunch partner, sat with a group of girls, playing a rousing game of Who Likes?.

"Who likes pizza?", hands everywhere!
"Who likes hot dogs?", another fit of hand waving!
"Who likes macaroni and cheese?", it was becoming contagious!
"Who likes arugula?", one lone hand, plenty of silence.

Her teacher shook her head, so close, so very close.

Boy Burger or Girl Nugget?

After a long quarter of very hard work they were to be rewarded with a class party. The classroom voted and McDonalds won, beating out pizza by a landslide. Kate, who loves pizza and has never had McDonalds, was bitterly disappointed. She had no idea what to order, having been offered a cheeseburger or nuggets, and later confided to me that she was concerned that the burger would have "plastic" cheese and that nuggets were... she had no idea. Her kind teacher suggested she choose a salad which thrilled her, being shocked that you could find such things at a place like McDonalds.

Proudly I explained to Jack that Kate, when faced with McDonalds, chose salad. Smugly I knew, we had done everything right.

"Allyson, she can't order a salad. She cannot be the only child in the class who does not eat a Happy Meal. That's not right, in fact it's wrong. She has no idea what a Shamrock Shake is, she has never had a Big Mac, the Hamburgler is completely foreign to her. She is going to be a huge geek."

Attributed to lack of options, I was the parent chosen to pick up and deliver the reward to the 18 hungry children. The message on my phone read: 10 cheeseburgers 8 nuggets 2 Caesar salads 1 milk 10 Sprites 8 orange drinks.

Two things immediately stood out: one, Kate was not the lone salad eater, and two, didn't anyone want fries? Despite all the terrible things I think about McDonald, even I, sworn enemy of Ronald and all his processed food products, had to admit this: McDonalds makes really great fries. I responded:"Fries? Doesn't anyone want fries?". The teacher's answer, "Happy Meals".

I had no idea where to find a McDonalds in the city. It was pointed out to me that I pass the golden arches each and every morning on my way to school.

By 11:30 the woman behind the counter had a full days accumulation of special sauce on her never before pressed blue and white striped uniform. We had bibs at our house four years ago that were cleaner than what was presented to me on the chest of the woman who was to prepare the food for my child and her classmates.

Her heavy accent, both of her native land and her liberal use of McDonalds lingo, was made more difficult to understand when passing through her missing front tooth. Reading from my phone I presented my order.

"Boy or girl?"
"Beg pardon?"
"For those Happy Meals, do you want boy or girl?"
"There is a difference? Seriously? You have gender segregated Happy Meals?"

Dirty Shirt Lady looked as confused as I was. Did the nuggets come in male and female appropriate shapes? And what would those be? It isn't enough that I am only allowed to shop in one half of the Gap, that I am restricted to only the pink aisles at Target, and now I have to buy sex specific fast food?

Several years ago Jack's dad brought in a plate of steaks from the grill and pronounced one side of the plate "lady steaks". My general self found this deeply offensive, my non meat eating self found it hilarious. No one else seemed bothered, save Jack who was terrified I would chose this opportunity to make a statement on meat equality. I did not.

"Why on earth would you need to offer male and female food? Doesn't that seem just a bit odd to you? I have absolutely no idea who ordered what, how on earth can I decide who gets pink fries and who gets blue. You see the insanity, right?". It appeared that she did not, but she did gesture to the display case of Happy Meal toys, neatly sorted into blue and pink sections.

Stuffed animals: giraffes, tigers, pigs, lions, bears, all seemingly asexual to me. "Girl's please", and with that I ordered 18 girl Happy Meals for a classroom consisting of 10 boys and 8 girls, and I was convinced they would not notice.

Kate enjoyed her salad, as did Kate's teacher. Michael, the first to open his Happy Meal, immediately pulled out his tiny stuffed giraffe, and then just as quickly threw it back in and screamed, "this isn't mine, it's a girl meal!".

It is highly unlikely that I will be asked again to cater the classroom luncheon. Three trips to McDonalds, children forever scared and gender confused by the hasty selection of an all effeminate, yet seemingly neutral, cast of tiny stuffed animals, and one ridiculous argument with a soiled and wrinkled woman over missing soft drinks; smugly I knew, I had done everything right.

The Kid's Menu

When the topic turned to school lunches, I kept quiet, fidgeting with my napkin, feigning interest in the people outside. Bologna sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly, Chips Ahoy, and finally I blurted out, "my girls don't eat kid food". It was time, I'd danced around the topic for too long hoping my silence would not reveal the horrid truth; Mary and Kate eat grown up food. The other moms handled it well, they asked questions, they didn't judge, I might be asked back.

It all began quite innocently, and selfishly. Jack and I, with no babysitters and no desire to stay at home for 10 years, took the girls with us whenever we went out. A nibble of naan, a morsel of morel, a pod of edamame, and they were hooked. There would be no nugget on these plates, they liked what we were feeding them, and we liked that they were hungry.

Recently Jack and I had a conversation with a friend who, while her children do eat chicken fingers, recognizes that the choices on the kid's menu are generally unhealthy and awful. But it's easier she reasoned, and so she continues to select for them from the small box on the back of the menu that, even in better restaurants, offers hot dogs, cheese pizza and macaroni and cheese.

We skip that box, because to me it makes no sense at all to feed my child a hot dog in a seafood restaurant, or macaroni and cheese in an Italian restaurant. For us it was not a healthy choice driven decision but a hope that the girls would develop a taste for complex flavors, and an understanding of culture through food. Knowing that they wouldn't starve and understanding that they won't like everything, we continue to present them with choices. Indian food, we have tried countless times and haven't yet found anything that appeals to their five year old pallets, and so their meal now consists of naan and basmati rice. We are on an Indian food moratorium, a family agreed upon hold, until we do some research and find something less spicy that might appeal to Mary and Kate. The Southern Indian dosai has been suggested and so a trip to the Indian neighborhood, and Udupi Palace, is on the schedule for September.

They like shumai and pho, sushi and gyoza, but not American cheese. In fact Kate will send back, or ask us to, a sandwich that appears with what she calls plastic cheese. Offered this when she was two by a good friend of ours in her home, both girls handed it back to us, and then we knew, cheese snobs. Not so great when you know you are heading into the years of play dates and school outings, where, with certainty, they will be offered plastic cheese sandwiches, and your child is going to be the one asking for hers with a mature English cheddar. Also problematic, Kate imploring her friend Rachel to "just try it, it's good" when Rachel has no interest at all in Kate's hummus and tapenade. My children have requested tamales, quesadillas and guacamole at their upcoming birthday party, will they be the only ones eating?

Twins have actually made eating out easier; knowing that we could either buy two things from the children's box, or one adult entree to share, made our plan financially more feasible. Until now, until this past year when different opinions, and the ability to read the menu, forced us to two entrees. Tonight's stir fried vegetables came with chicken and rice for Kate, tofu and noodles for Mary, and the leftovers came home. Most of our favorite places graciously allow for a half order, meaning that Mary can have gnocchi with marinara and Kate, farfalle with chicken and mushrooms, and everyone is happy.

Acceptance is the first step, palak paneer comes next.

Getting a Good Deal on a Sandwich

Certainly you saw it also, the line that snaked around the corner and down the street? I saw it three times today, people standing outside, warm in the sun, spending what I assume to be a good portion of their lunch hour standing in line. Blackhawks paraphernalia, right? Must be, Stanley Cup tshirts or car stickers maybe, clearly that was the origin of the line. Maybe Patrick Kane himself was signing the game winning puck?

One dollar sandwiches at Jimmy John's, from 11-3, for customer appreciation, and let me be clear, people were taking full advantage of Jimmy John's need to show their appreciation. How much does a Jimmy John's sandwich cost on a day when they are feeling less grateful?

The McDonalds in my old office building used to do the same thing. Once a year they would sell those little smashed up burgers with the ketchup mustard combo squirt for around $.50. In a two hour window in which everyone who worked in the building, all four towers of at least 30 stories each, would cram into the lower concourse, gleefully clutching their dollar bill, or perhaps two if they were feeling flush, to spend at least an hour waiting to enjoy the bliss delivered in getting two burgers for one dollar. Colleagues would plan their day around the event, scheduling meetings and calls on the outside of the precious window, years of experience valuable when planning your descent into the madness, choosing just the right person to while away an hour of valuable work time in pursuit of the bargain burger. Much like those who line up on Saturday morning at Costco, having sniffed out the woman with the buffalo chicken in her mini oven, they block the already congested aisles, hoping to be first in line for the free fragment of processed frozen chicken covered in mozzarella sauce. Best to be first I suppose as what remains is surely to be sneezed on by the kid next in line.

Where do you find a good sandwich? Not a chain sandwich, or a gimmicky sandwich, not one that is rolled or flattened or stuffed with french fries. Two pieces of bread, put together by an actual person without a photograph of the finished product before him, layered with things that make a sandwich the perfect summer picnic food. For that I would happily pay full price.

Smoked Jack on White Bread

The research begins a month in advance, even though I do the exact same analysis every year. I post queries to local food websites, read reviews and ultimately select the absolute perfect place to take my husband for his birthday. It's a restricted boundary search, I am looking for the best place to take him, in Chicago, to replicate his beloved Kansas City barbecue. Chicago is a big city, one of the largest I am told, and thus one might think great barbecue would be available on every corner. Not so says the man who fine tuned his taste buds at Arthur Bryant's; Chicago barbecue just does not satisfy when you are aching for burned meat crust soaking in tangy sauce on top of white bread.

Burnt ends at Arthur Bryant's

Last year it was easy, Smoque had just opened, people loved it, there were long lines, absolutely nothing resembling a vegetable, seemingly perfect. He deemed it too clean, and they had a kid's menu, blasphemy. Before that we tried Fat Willy's, plenty of smoke smell when I made my preliminary drive by, somewhat rustic looking, but the horror, they served salad, and there was a waitress. He is always grateful but even I know, you should not find a Caesar salad on any real barbecue menu, lettuce and greasy meat do not co-mingle. Of course I was raised by the supreme beef eater, Gate's sauce was fed to me en lieu of ketchup from a very early age. My father thought Arthur Bryant's was the finest restaurant in the world, and be certain, they do not serve salad. They do not really serve anything, rather they to toss you, from behind a barred counter, an enormous mound of smoked meat on white bread, wrapped in brown paper with a smattering of pickles and a lard soaked fries. There are no waitresses, rather there are men with missing teeth and women who yell to move along when you pause to consider the pork or the brisket. Have both for God's sake but keep the line moving.

One year Uncle Kenny graciously shipped burnt ends and smoked pork with beans and pickles, wrapped in dry ice and delivered to our front door. As the cost was about the same as two plane tickets to Kansas City, I eliminated this as an option for future years. Jack generously plays along, feigning surprise when we pull up in front of Chicago barbecue option number 47; the girls delight in surprising their dad with his favorite food and I delight in offering him meat, once a year. Imagine my horror when I turned the corner this year to find that once again, I had selected salad place. He is kind but never effusive while he quietly scrapes the caramelized onions and horseradish sauce off his brisket. And this year he looked the other way when I dug into my sandwich, one of the finest smoked portobello mushrooms with tomato basil chutney I have ever had.

Perhaps the real hindrance to beef bliss is in allowing the near vegetarian to chose the barbecue. Maybe the greatest gift I could offer would be to put Jack in charge of smoked meat. Happy birthday Jack, will we be spending your birthday in Kansas City next year?

Charitable Giving

As a general rule, I don't give money to people with extended hands. Years ago, during the holiday season, I thought it clever to drop a small candy cane into the cup; festive, refreshing and somewhat practical. Assuming those asking didn't have ready access to money, and food and dental hygiene, peppermint was a true gift back to the community, until the teeth began to rot from the sugar. My holiday generosity was halted when the candy cane was hurled back at me in protest of its non monetary value. To note, candy canes are hard and when cold and thrown with force, weaponry.

In my early commuting days soliciting was allowed on the trains. One long and cold ride home found me between a man selling candy bars for his church group and a very smelly man who honestly admitted he wanted money to buy beer. With thoughts of only the greater good, and just a bit of dreamy silence, I bought a candy bar, sent an underprivileged kid to church camp, and handed my purchase over to the smelly guy looking for an Old Style. He threw it, with an arm that could be used at Wrigley this summer, he wound up and projected that Snickers the entire length of the train, and then called me a name, not my given name, not a nice name. My years of selfless giving were over.

Now, once a month, the girls and I make sandwiches for the homeless lunch program at church. Still recovering from all the confectionery launched at me over the years, I prefer to make my contributions in a safe environment, with things far less lethal, and noticeably softer, than propelled candy. Sandwiches made by five year old children are inconsistent and loaded with everything they can get their hands on, assumably quite delectable to those who may not have had many a good, and thick, sandwich in recent days. I have visions of them opening the bags and finding not one slice, not seven, but a bizarre amount of turkey and ham and cheese, the most wonderful pile of food ever assembled, and I think of those who have shunned my goodwill in years past, and I smirk, rather unkindly.

Last month, as we delivered the sandwiches, Kate asked if she might ever be one of the recipients of our lunch generosity. In classic Mother over think, I rambled on about the uncertainty of life and the true meaning of giving. While it is less than likely that she might ever find herself in a place where a sloppily crafted pile of lunch meat eaten outdoors in truly cold weather might sound appealing, for unknown reasons I thought it best to prepare my five year old for the possibility that she may find herself out of work one day, or without health care, or social security, that there are no guarantees, and that we must always be grateful for what we have and the opportunities we are given.

"Oh, I just thought those sandwiches looked pretty good".

Sweet and Salty

"Mom, may we have candy, may we have some trick or treat things, please?"

I'm not unreasonable, I gave them one thing each the day after Halloween, one carefully selected sweet and sticky candy treat, no licorice, or flavored sugar, but something with chocolate, or peanut butter or nuts.

But today, today they want more. One each, you may each select one thing from your pumpkin. They rooted around, assessing the options, carefully making their selection. Mary emerged with a Reeses, "This! Dad LOVES this", and that was fine, although she had no idea what it was. Kate continued to dig.

Minutes later Kate came up for air clutching a small bag of Halloween themed pretzels, "Mom, may I have these, may I please eat my pretzels?".

It's all about making choices.

No Plastique in Paris

It's back, the plastic we loath has returned. First it was bottles, rows and rows of bottles, and all the bottle accouterments, filling the top rack in the dishwasher. Next came the truly awful sippy cups. As if the plastic wasn't bad enough, most came adorned with some caricature that in no way contributed to the functionality of the sippy cup. And as a note, sippy? Really? We want our children to be intelligent and yet we freely use a word like sippy?

And now, after a few short yet blissful plastic free years we are here, plastic lunch box components. The thought of tossing away a gazillion plastic bags annually horrifies me so I went with the less awful option, plastic containers of different shapes and sizes, to be reused daily and eventually recycled. But they must be cleaned, and so now our dishwasher, so briefly free of plastic, is full each day with red and yellow and green boxes, and their matching lids.

The real problem, aside from the unsightly nature of plastic, and the feel that it just is never really clean, is that our dishwasher does not dry plastic. It refuses. This machine that requires not one thing to be wiped clean before it is loaded, the same one that just might polish the silver if I were to find the right button, does not dry plastic. It looks nice, it's sleek and snappy and it does just a stellar job with all our other dirty items, but the pricey European dishwasher has a thing against plastic, and I just can't blame it.

This leads me to believe that Europeans simply do not use plastic, certainly not to the extent that Americans do. We have embraced plastic, I believe if it was possible we would all live in plastic houses, or at least families with children would, and to some extent we do; have you seen the amount of plastic gifted to people with small children? It's all brightly colored and unattractive, but it's easy to clean, hooray!

Or possibly school children in France are offered lunch choices that do not make their parents recoil in terror. Here's an example of lunch offered recently in a suburban Paris school district: cucumbers with garlic and fine herbs, Basque chicken thigh with herbs, red and green bell peppers and olive oil, couscous, organic yogurt and an apple. And here is an example of what was recently offered at Mary and Kate's school: nachos, Tony's sausage pizza, cheesy mac with turkey ham, green beans, diced peaches and animal crackers. School children in France are given at least 30 minutes for lunch, as compared to the 20 minutes allotted at our school. In that 20 minutes the kindergartners must walk to the lunchroom, go through the lunch line, wait again for milk, and then spend the remaining time inhaling the choices they have made, or the food I have packed. It appears that lunch in France is offered as part of the education, not just a quick refueling session to keep children awake in the afternoon.

And so, despite our tres chic European brand dishwasher, we still live in the land of Kenmore appliances. The children find, in their lunch boxes each day, small plastic containers full of modified American lunch staples while I, at the end of each day stand drying the horrid things, cursing the American school lunch program, and the smug dishwasher who knows it doesn't have to be this way.

The Children's Menu

Jack recently stumbled upon the dining deal of the year, the Neighborhood Friends’ Menu at Café Des Architectes. A prix fixe menu, $29 for adults and free for children under five, we qualify, we’ve got two under five! We spiffed up last night, the ladies and I, and met Jack for a lovely dinner at a recently celebrated French restaurant.

Our menu options were divine: Chioggia Beet Salad, Spiced Duck Confit, Macadamia Crusted Talapia. The girls were offered a terribly disappointing, but sadly typical children’s menu: peanut butter and jelly, macaroni and cheese, hot dog and grilled cheese. Really? Would it be possible for us to order off the regular menu? They were confused, “we have the children’s menu, perhaps you did not see that?”. Oh no, we did, thank you. Kindly they agreed.

Kate started with Cured Baby Coho Salmon with fingerling potato salad, watercress and lemon crème fraiche. For her entrée she chose a Swan Creek Farm Chicken Breast with oyster mushrooms and caramelized cipollini onions. Mary, the child who loves soup, ordered Cauliflower Veloute with brown butter, crème fraiche and pickled vegetables and then moved on to Roasted Root Vegetable with squash, parmesan gnocchi and lettuce. And for desert, reminding us that they are four, they both chose a scoop of vanilla ice cream. All of it enjoyed, and devoured. The only real negative, a meal of this caliber takes a bit longer than 60 minutes; thankfully knowing ice cream was coming helped them to sit in their seats, albeit a bit bouncily after an hour or so.

And with the joie de vivre with which they address each day, they dug into the requested grilled cheese at lunch today, savoring every last bite as if it was croque monsieur.

These Are a Few of Our Favorite Things

At dinner last weekend we played the recently received in my inbox game, what are your top three favorite things to eat. Sitting in a BBQ restaurant to celebrate, belatedly, Jack's birthday, I was certain burnt ends would make his list. Wrong, we live too far from Kansas City, too far from Florence, too far from Kinsale, and so the rule became favorite things to eat in Chicago.

Jack
1. Hot Pepper Noodle with chicken from Penny's,
2. Dynamite roll at Katachi,
3. Bone in filet at Joe's Seafood (NOT Joe's Crabshack).

Mary
1. Gnocchi at Fornello,
2. Avocado roll at Katachi,
3. Grilled cheese, at home.

Kate
1. Guacamole from Mr. Salsa,
2. Quesadilla from Mr. Salsa,
3. Asparagus roll at Katachi.

Me
1. Penne broccoli at Basil Leaf,
2. San Francisco roll at Katachi,
3. Bun from Hai Yen.

We learned a few things, we all really like Katachi, and Mr. Salsa, although none as much as Kate, and with the exception of the bone in filet, we all like really cheap food. Maybe we need to branch out a bit, try something new, although old habits are hard to break. With all the food I cook, the hours I spend in the kitchen, the only thing coming from that kitchen that was even mentioned, grilled cheese. Jack made an slight reference to vinaigrette but jumped in with the filet, knocking me off his list effortlessly.

Next up, favorite dining experiences, worldwide.

Where's the Beef?

Food is my freak spot with the children. Some mothers stress about schedules and napping, some about schools, introducing flash cards at a very young age, and some about clothes and appearances but for me, it's all about food. Their baby food was all homemade, not something I saw as crazy, but apparently yes, to some, madness. Pureed squash was served with pureed apples, pureed potatoes with pureed green beans, all seasoned, garlic added early, as was basil and mint. Not once have I prepared a separate meal for the children, they eat with us every night, unless we are going out. They are not fed early, they are not fed in the kitchen, they sit at the dining room table, as they have since they were able to sit, and enjoy meals with their family.

We eat in actual restaurants. Mary and Kate have no idea what McDonalds is, they have never had fast food, save Chipotle, one of their favorite lunch spots. We don't seek out "child friendly" places, they go where we go and they eat what we eat. They have no idea that chickens have fingers, peanut butter has jelly and that macaroni and cheese comes out of a blue box. My mother in law discovered they had never had jello, "what do you feed them when they are sick?". Nothing.

We've recently discovered that Kate likes meat, loves meat, horrifying to me but not at all a shock as she is in every sense, her father's daughter. Mary prefers rolling up to the potato bar with me, seeking out the starch at every meal. Kate eats bites from Jack's Vietnamese pho, beef broth full of tripe and tendons and other unthinkables. She nibbles at his carne asada, dances when he orders steak frites and smiles like no other when bacon is on her plate at Arnold's. Sunday we went to our friend Joe's place to watch the Super Bowl. Joe is Italian. His mother made pasta with meatballs, arancini (with meat filling) and Italian beef. Kate nearly fell over when we walked in. While I sought out the carrots and broccoli, Jack prepared a plate for Kate, a pile of Italian beef and a few tomatoes. She dutifully took it over to the table, crawled up in her chair and began to feast. I casually leaned in and said "you know love, you don't have to finish that". When her father joined us she announced to him, "I was told not to finish this".

Subtle, but none the less, tattling. She followed up that plate of beef with gelato, and even if Kate had been born and raised in Arizona, breathing her every breath as a Cardinals fan, she would have still been the happiest little girl in the city.

French Silk Pie

What kind of pie do the girls like? Pardon me? Pie, if they were going to eat pie, what would they like? Alright, apple maybe, or peach, there's always blueberry, they'd like any of those. No, those are the pies you would like them to like, would they like, French Silk?



We are going to Kansas City in a few weeks where we will stay at Uncle Kenny's house, a perfectly decorated and organized home that will in no time be turned upside down and sideways. And I fully expect part of the madness to be his doing, I get the impression that I may find as many toys there as Mary and Kate have in their own home. Although primarily he is excited to feed them. He's asked for a list from me, of food they eat, so that he may have things on hand. So kind, so thoughtful. Here's my list:

1. Organic skim milk
2. Berries of some sort
3. Organic eggs
4. Bananas
5. Raisins

Here's what I expect to find waiting for us:

1. Chocolate milk
2. Oreos
3. Cookie Dough ice cream
4. Pillsbury rolled up cookie dough
5. Chocolate chocolate frozen pop things

Mary and Kate may never want to leave, this could be like a trip to see Willy Wonka, and staying in his home. I'm a bit of a food freak, admittedly. I made all their baby food, pureed everything from start to finish. I cook dinner almost every night where we sit and eat together, the four of us. They don't order from the children's menu, anywhere, as I find it to be almost exclusively garbage. They enjoy quite a repertoire of food, and are quite willing to try new things with very little encouragement. Tonight they had hummus and tapenade with pita. I am not opposed to sweets, but I am horrified by processed and preserved and scary food'ish things that are routinely offered to children. Food must look like food, unless we are at Uncle Kenny's where apparently food will look like chocolate pudding in a pie shell. What is French Silk Pie anyway?