Picky eaters

My kids are picky eaters. They usually say things like, "This smells funny," or, "This doesn't look right," or "I don't eat meat on Tuesdays," or "Can we Fed Ex this 'yummy' food to those starving kids in Africa?"

How I ended up with three picky eaters is no mystery: my mother put a curse on me. It happened one night in 1979. In fact, the entire incident plays in my mind like a movie flashback.

As I remember it, the incident took place in our kitchen. My mother, who will be known as Ma Ware for the purposes of laughs, was tired from working over a hot stove.

"Dinner's almost ready!" she shouted.

I entered the kitchen, and for no particular reason, announced, "I don't eat pork anymore."

"Boy, these pork chops cost $2 a pound," Ma Ware said.

"I don't want one. I don't eat pork anymore," I said.

Ma Ware let out a sigh and said, "Why do you have to be so difficult?"

Being a kid, and not yet trained in the art of witty banter, I shrugged shoulders and left the kitchen. Ma Ware, unaware I was still within earshot, grumbled, "How is he gonna wait until after I make dinner to say doesn't eat pork? Acting like he's some kind of Muslim or something. There's nothing wrong with these pork chops. I hope he doesn't think I'm going to fix him something else. He can starve for all I care I don't know why that boy is so much trouble. I hope he gets children who act just like him. Then he'll see what I'm going through. Like I have time to deal with this nonsense. He can starve to death for all I care!"

I didn't starve to death, as you can see. I did, however, get stuck with three picky eaters. Whereas I was just a garden-variety picky eater, my children are world-class. The list of foods I try to serve them doesn't keep up with their ever-changing tastes.

Just as soon as I have them figured out, one of them will spring something new on me. Recently, my six-year-old said that the only meat he'll eat is the turkey in the sandwich he takes for his school lunch.

Why won't he eat meat at other times? "I have my reasons. I will not tell you, but believe me, I have my reasons," he said.

At first, I suspected he was just trying to push my buttons, but he seems to have settled into a quasi-vegetarian lifestyle. I'm cool with him limiting the amount of meat he eats. If he ever decides to pass up fruits and vegetables, then I'll have a problem.

My four-year-old and two-year-old, while not as picky as the six-year-old, do have their moments. It puzzles me how a dish can one day make my four-year-old daughter say, "Dad, this is my favorite meal in the world." A week later, she'll take one look at her favorite meal and declare, "Yuck!"

My two-year-old often acts as if we're trying to poison him. Any new food that appears on his plate makes him suspicious. "Me don't want this!" he'll say, Our pleas to have him try it only seem to confirm his suspicions. "You eat it," he'll say.

Although I'm paying for the grief I caused my mother 25 years ago, I'm not alone in my suffering. Every time we visit my parents, my mother makes remarks about my picky eaters, as if I somehow made them this way. I, of course, laugh when I hear her complain.

Why do I laugh? I have my reasons. I will not tell you, but believe me, I have my reasons.