Oh, Crockpot. You are an enigma to me. A mirage of meal planning. A siren song of supper.
Why do you tempt me and tease me so?
I love the idea of you. I even like the food that you produce—very much. The problem? My kids do not.
This is their own fault, of course, for having such infuriatingly picking palettes. Probably mine, too. I mean, I’m the mom—it all circles back to being my fault, in one way or another, doesn’t it?
I was also a picky eater as a child. I didn’t really even embrace pizza until the later years of elementary school. I’m fairly certain I did not deliberately eat a slice of cheese until somewhere closer to college. I was, in short, ridiculous.
My greatest nemesis for the better part of the first two decades of my life: FOOD THAT TOUCHED. I liked my plate lean and mean. Bread goes here. Peas—if there must be peas—here. Never the two shall meet. I liked applesauce, but it always posed a challenge, as it had a way of sneaking its way across the plate to the other items’ neighborhoods. I liked a clean border. A clear perimeter. Applesauce—stay on your side. Do not even think about going over to visit that macaroni. Do. Not. Even. Think. About. It.
In retrospect, “picky” is probably being kind. To say I was “kind of a freak” about my food might be more apt. Today, I may be labeled with some sort of syndrome and given something soothing to comfort me. Instead, because it was the 70s, I ate a lot of plain bologna sandwiches and, when confronted with a plate of offensive and gelatinous items, remained vigilant.
Somewhere along the way, I figured it out. Cheese is good. So are lots of vegetables, even. So are lots of FOODS THAT TOUCH—lasagna, and cheese enchiladas, and omelets, and chile relleno, and huevos rancheros, just to name a few.
My children, sadly, have not yet seen the light. This means that virtually everything a Crockpot could produce will be rejected by them.
Still, I keep trying. Because I am busy. Because I am a working mom and because Crockpots offer the promise of mealtime sanity—that wonderful feeling of walking in the door and knowing that dinner is already made. And in one pot, no less!
Why do my children persist in their rejection?
Maybe, I think, I just have not found the right recipe. So, I search. Just this morning, I cozied up to Google and hunted for “Crockpot recipes for picky kids.”
The results? From esteemed, allegedly informed websites?
Recipes for Crockpot dinners that kids will love, the sites promised, for “creamy mushroom . . . [something]” (I don’t know the something, because I stopped reading after “creamy mushroom”) and for another dish that “tastes just like grandma’s chicken casserole.”
Creamy mushroom [something]? Grandma’s chicken casserole? Really? Who are the picky children these recipes have in mind? What do these hypothetical children not like? I mean, I know picky. I was (am?) picky. And you, hypothetical internet child who will happily eat creamy mushroom [something], are not picky.
I called off the search. Who am I kidding? Until I can find a Crockpot recipe that magically produces “chicken nuggets and a separate container of French fries” in a white McDonalds bag, the effort is probably futile. Oh, wait, come to think of it, my youngest doesn’t like French fries yet either. Ah, well, a mother can dream.