The preparation of the ortolan bunting songbird is steeped in booze, gruesome tradition, and taboo. The tiny birds are captured alive and forced into blackout cages filled with grain. Similar to a clandestine midnight kitchen gorging, the lack of light disorients the birds and they feed until they nearly double in size. The overstuffed birds are then drowned in fine French brandy, roasted, and served whole.
I am reminded of this rituel gastronomique while sitting in my mother’s kitchen. With their darting eyes averted both my children are eating Lunchables. In our home my wife and I have prohibited overly processed foods. But this is not our home. This is Grandma’s house and she likes to treat our requests as a challenge. So I watch appalled as my kids loudly claw and pull apart the plastic, their sticky fingers reaching for the forbidden crackers. They chew, eyes closed, in a fit of pure rapture, savoring each dry miserable morsel.
My kids used to be adventurous eaters. Like watching your stoned college roommate concoct a meal from a fridge full of condiments, the way my children combined random foods was both awe-inspiring and revolting. I once witnessed my daughter mash a banana into her baked beans and wolf down the slurry mess; my son squirt a blob of chocolate sauce onto a bowlful of tuna salad and devour it with ecstatic delight.
But now at the ages of four and six, they no longer experiment, and a certain food neophobia has set in. They gravitate to the tasteless and mundane. I envision an insipid future; chicken nuggets, cheese pizza, and crustless white bread sandwiches. Adults eating Hot Pockets, ordering entrées without onions. Complaining that anything with a hint of flavor is “too spicy.”
When we leave Grandma’s I decide to take my children by their moist little hands and embark on a journey of culinary discovery. On my phone I find a recipe for Gourmet Mac and Cheese in The New York Times app. The perfect maiden voyage to demonstrate that good food doesn’t come from a box. Then I realize there’s a litany of obscure ingredients; some of them I don’t recognize, and they all look expensive. The steps to prepare the dish are suspiciously long too. This could take the better part of the day. I hesitate for a moment, but as we drive it begins raining and I remember that my wife is out of town and it is just me and the kids. A full day ahead with nothing planned. Gourmet Mac and Cheese it is.
We spend the morning in the cheese section of the local grocery store. I present to them a chunky carton of feta and explain that it’s made from goat’s milk. When my kids insist that cheese can only come from cows, I recognize this as a teachable moment and offer an impromptu lecture explaining the origins of feta. When they don’t believe me, we ask the only authority my kids regard. I hold out my phone and ask Siri, but my kids begin bickering; the time for a teachable moment has passed. We continue on, roaming the rest of the store, gathering our ingredients.
On our way to the checkout, we pass the frozen food section. My children both smile when they see the colorful Kid Cuisine boxes. For the length of a mini-corn dog, I contemplate giving up. But instead, I push the cart faster.
At home, with their little bellies rumbling, my children join me in the kitchen to prepare the recipe. Do they complain? Of course, they do; they complain the entire time. But I’ve watched enough television to know that all the best chefs are assholes. And when the dish is finished it looks as if it wafted over from an Instagram post; the top of the Gourmet Mac and Cheese is baked to a perfect crisp, and below is a melty mix of cheese and noodles. It tastes amazing, and I know if my kids would try it, if they would just take one bite, they would love it. But they flat-out refuse.
It’s not Kraft, they tell me.
And it smells yucky.
Does it hurt my feelings? Am I a bit discouraged? No, not one bit.
At least I’m not until later. The rain has let up some, and my kids are wearing raincoats and boots. I watch them playing in the backyard while I clean the kitchen. When I finish, I join them just as the setting sun appears between departing clouds. The yard is bathed in a misted marigold glow, and fat drops of rain fall from the trees like an afterthought. I walk over to my children lying on the wet lawn. Both of their heads are down, and I can see their little bird tongues poking out. I stand above them confused until I realize that they are both taking sips from a cloudy muddy puddle. “Why?” I ask them.
They both look up at me. Hoods shield their eyes, their chins are hanging inches from the cold brown muck and I notice a dark dribble running from my daughter’s lip.
I ask again, “Why? Why would you do such a thing?”
My son smiles. A rock, or pad of mud obscures a front tooth. He looks a bit deranged as he says “Sorry, Dad. We just wanted to try it.”
Richie Zaborowske is a dad, librarian, and author from the Midwest. He puts a contemporary twist on traditional library offerings; his monthly Short Story Night packs the local brewery and features trivia, comedy, and author interviews. His writing appears in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Brevity, The Los Angeles Review, HAD, X-R-A-Y, Identity Theory, Jet Fuel Review, and others.
Image: nyt.com
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Heavy Feather Review 