Monday, October 08, 2007

Beans and cornbread had a fight

My Hubby enjoys food. He will eat almost anything put in front of him. This made the early part of our marriage much easier, since I wasn't a very good cook. No matter how charred, runny or lumpy a dish was, he always cheerfully dug in.

I am a picky eater, however, or rather a recovering one. I was the kind of child who would sit in front of a hated dish for hours rather than try it.

My brother J. tells a story about how I once ruined Thanksgiving. I tried a small bite of something I disliked because my mother threatened to take away dessert. My stomach rebelled, and I GROSSMENT puked all over the steaming turkey. END GROSSMENT

We had KFC for supper that night. J. was bitter for years.

Little I. seems to have inherited his father's cheerful love of food. But Super A. inherited my taste buds along with my imagination. I'm philosophical about it: He is healthy and growing, if a little skinny. I don't make him different food. If he doesn't eat, he goes hungry until the next meal or scheduled snack. It's his body. Whatever.

A.'s pickiness drives Hubby crazy. All A. has to do is say the magic words, "I don't like...." and Hubby's blood pressure shoots. He gets a wild look in his eye and a sneer on his face.

"You try that," he intones.

A. takes a small bite, makes the gross face and spits out the food.

This is where I usually intervene and remind A. of the table rules. One bite of everything. No spitting at the table. No complaining.

Lately, the fight has gotten worse. Hubby is pressuring him to eat more, and A. has been eating less and less.

Today at Thanksgiving dinner, Hubby looked like he was going to jump out of his seat, all over some uneaten potatoes.

What I can't get him to see is what is going on in A.'s head.

It's simple: he is sensitive to food. To its smell and taste and texture and temperature. Stress makes him more sensitive, so pressuring him to eat only makes him like the food less.

I am the same way. Even now, my food must be piping hot or ice cold. I can't eat lukewarm soup or melted ice cream or room temperature meat. Texture is important to me, too. I get it.

I don't know how to diffuse this. But in the end, eating is A.'s problem, not Hubby's. Until he accepts that, he's making it his problem.

I just have to avoid making it mine, too.

2 comments:

StBlog said...

Just stopped by to say hello and see how things were going with you and the family. I remember when you joined the Parish you were just preparing to watch your husband leave for his training. Looks like you've all survived! I love the eating thing . . . my maternal grandmother was like your husband. I recall sitting for at least an hour after dinner had ended once because I wouldn't (couldn't!) eat liver. In the end she allowed me to wad a half slice of bread around a tiny piece of liver in order to get me to eat a few pieces. I used almost the entire loaf of bread - never a hint of the taste of liver!
Husband needs to understand that his method will NEVER work and obviously is working against him! I'll pray for sanity at the table. God bless you all! +JMJ+ John

Chris said...

I ruined Easter once. I woke up early and found all the chocolate before anyone else got up. My brothers and sisters cried.

Also ruined Christmas when I was six. I looked up Santa Claus in the 1960s-era World Book encyclopedia my parents had, and it said he was mythical. I made sure all my younger siblings understood the meaning of "mythical." They cried. Kinda screwed myself, though. My haul was lighter after that, and if I'd been truly smart instead of merely clever, I'd have faked it until 12 or so.