My husband and I are adventurous foodies and very few interesting dishes can escape our maws. We shamelessly fulfill all of our culinary urges, binge on food we can’t really afford, snub our nose at Rice-a-Roni and make family dinner time a sacred event. Been doing this for years and all the while unknowingly creating a monster.
Our daughter’s first “real” food was a lamb chop with a side of mango puree. To this day, each remains on her top ten list of foods, along with pizza, aged Gouda and sharp true English cheddar cheeses, ice cream/gelato (any flavor but particularly Stracciatella), broccoli, liverwurst, shrimp and crab gumbo, Serrano ham sandwiches and linguini with Progresso White Clam Sauce. Honorary mention goes to beef (tenderloin, ribeye or T-bone steaks), smoked salmon and tacos. We could even safely add watermelon as well as the ubiquitous ketchup to this ever expanding list.
It has taken us nearly twelve years, thirteen countries and way too much money for Emile to reach these culinary heights. What were we thinking? For 21 plus years, my dear grandmother showed me the delights of cooking and clearly my “foodieness” is a direct result of her influence. Many years later and for some bizarre reason, sweet Granny introduced Emile to ketchup. As Granny progressed to the ripe old age of 99 and what was most likely the result of diminished acuity of taste buds, Granny decided that most foods were simply better with ketchup.
With my daughter’s 12th birthday rapidly approaching, I have been tossing party ideas around to see which one she catches. “How about a party at McDonald’s this year, sweetie?” was one bizarre suggestion which broke all of my self imposed rules but made sense only because at that particular moment I was feeling lazy. “Ewww!” was the response. The second suggestion was even more emphatically declined: “I’ll just make some hotdogs and get a store bought cake. With blue icing. Isn’t that your current favorite color?” “You have GOT to be kidding me, Mom. No way.”
This is all my fault. I thought we were doing Emile a favor with exposing her to various cuisines and cultures. Actually, I still think that. But when it comes to throwing parties for her, I must say that I have pretty much muddied the waters, created my own little personal hell and at the same time feel such pride.
In Holland, Emile tasted smoked eel which is one of my personal favorite foods in the world. Her response was, “It tastes like smoked salmon but doesn’t look as pretty.” This was when her favorite color was pink. Vacationing in Italy, everything was gelato, gelato, gelato. Plus some stuffed zucchini blossoms and Parmesano Reggiano cheese chunks dipped in truffle oil. “Tastes like my sock!” How Emile knows the flavor of her own sock is a mystery.
Perhaps Spanish cuisine thrills Emile more than others. Never enough boquerones (pickled anchovies) or grilled sardines to satisfy but please never ever put her anywhere near an entire Serrano ham leg. Pseudo affectionately called “Piggy Leggies” by Emile, what she abhors more than anything is those hanging pig haunches in the markets. Ironically, she adores a slice of piggy leggy, on a baguette with just a little butter.
My, did we torture our daughter in France…with a seared slice of fresh goose liver accompanied by a quince compote and port wine reduction. Bad parents we are. Emile’s take on the whole experience was, “It’s pretty good. German liverwurst is better.” Those are my grandfather’s genes coming through. (He was a German named EMIL.) Then there were the times when Emile and Sagey would climb down a rocky slope into the Mediterranean, armed with a pocket knife, to detach the rock clinging mussels and eat them right then and there. Beautiful!
In the USA and regarding watermelon, “You know what I think, Mom? God must eat watermelon every single day. I would if I were Him.”
A few weeks ago, we spent one Sunday in Fort Worth: Land of the cow, home of the beef. Enjoying an afternoon of museum hopping with some dear friends, Gilbert and Daniel, we eventually made our way to the old western portion of Cow Town. After explaining that we cannot actually “…go to the Stockyards and pick out a steak!” as Daniel suggested, we opted to dine at the 60 plus year old Cattlemen’s Steakhouse. The steaks were pretty good but not exactly worthy of adoration. What was notable was the appetizer we all shared. Called “Lamb Fries” at Cattlemen’s and “Calf Fries” or “Rocky Mountain Oysters” in the southwest, these little morsels looked somewhat like Dutch croquets. Arriving steaming hot and stabbed with toothpicks, Emile immediately assumed they were croquets which, ironically, have the alias “bitterballs”.
Concerned, Daniel quickly asked me, “Are you going to tell Emile what they are?” Of course. Why wouldn’t I? Emile’s reaction was a slight raising of her right eye brow, a tilt of the head and a small shoulder shrug as she popped one in her mouth. The silence was broken when Emile gave her verdict: “Hm. Interesting, but I think they’d be better with ketchup.”
And for that statement, Granny would be proud.