We had issues early on about his refusal to eat any vegetable matter. He did try to start eating vegetables after I talked to him. And when I told him it wasn’t polite to pick all the meat out of a stir-fry or hot-dish, he was aghast. He’s been trying, poor thing. Some of his food habits though, shook me to my core.
I mostly got over the fact that he’d microwave a bowl of milk every morning, sloshing it all over the kitchen. Hot milk sounded like a not good breakfast, but who am I? Here’s his favorite breakfast: A bowl of hot milk with a handful of cornflakes or shredded wheat left to swell for at least 20 minutes. He ate it when it had cooled to warm and when the cereal was bloated enough to evenly float across the top of the bowl. I stopped coming down in the morning until I heard him leave the house.
Which worked fine except that he didn’t like wearing boots or a hat. Stay with me here. He didn’t like boots, so his feets would get cold (he’d come in saying, “I can’t feel my feets”). The hat messed up his hair. So he’d wait inside until he could see his bus coming, then run out. The day I put up the heavy winter curtains, he missed the bus because he couldn’t see out the windows. About three days a week the front door would be open when I came down (“I didn’t have time to close the door. I would lose my bus.”) But damn, he looked good when he got to school. I’d find his bloated bowl of cereal next to the living room window on the days when he woke up really late.
The worst food incident was the potato-noodle episode. He really didn’t like my cooking. He wanted more starch, more meat. He asked on a Friday if he could make a soup. I wasn’t enthusiastic since he had already almost ruined two pans and a teapot by burning milk onto them. But I told him it was OK as long as he stayed in the kitchen while things were cooking. Which he did not.
He boiled noodles with onions and milk, and diced a potato into the pan. He walked away while the noodles puffed up and burned to the bottom of the pan. I called him back a few times. He checked on it and walked away again. Little did I know that it’s really hard to stay with noodles if you need to cook them for an hour. Which he did. When there was no liquid left in the pan, he scooped out a glob of noodles (he was kind enough to offer it to all of us) and ate them happily in front of the computer. After two bowls he was full. But there were lots and lots of noodles left.
I asked before I went to bed if he wanted me to put the noodles in the fridge. Nope, he didn’t. They sat out over night on the counter and he had another bowl for breakfast. By Saturday afternoon the noodle-gel-potato-mass had started to dry out on the top and pull away from the edges of the pan. For lunch he had a little more, warmed in the microwave. Yum.
I’m going to admit here that I stopped asking him if he was finished with the noodles because I was curious just how long he was going to eat this thing (which was most surely NOT a soup). By Sunday evening I had been broken. When he ate it, I actually started to gag. I told him we had to throw it away now. What was left plopped into the trash in a single noodley pan-shaped blob. He was fine by the way.