Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
TasteApril 2007
Last Tuesday, after fetching Roxy from daycare, we spent a few hours hanging out in Old Town Pasadena.
I used to sniff a bit at OTP. It was so...mall-like. So...fratboy on the weekends with its Hooters and Moose McGillicuddy's. Not enough independent businesses. Where was all the funk?
But that was 15 years ago. Now, eager to people watch and soak in the lively vibe along Colorado Boulevard, I happily make it a destination. Has the street changed — or have I mellowed? Both, I'm sure.
After wandering through several stores and procuring a pair of seersucker pants, I realized I was ravenous. Peering sideways at Jon, I said, "There's always Il Fornaio..." He perked up. The combination of spacious seating, bountiful menu and stroller parking behind the hostess station sounded perfect. Up the ramp we went.
By this time Roxy was doing her interpretive hungry dance. She squirmed in the high chair the moment we buckled her in and lunged for the closest silverware. Fortunately, warm bread arrived quickly. As we piled bits of potato and olive roll before her, Roxy got to work with her six trusty teeth. She was off to the carbohydrate races.
Roxy's eating habits have been funny lately. What was deeply yummy only months ago — pureed sweet potatoes, strained applesauce, baby-friendly oatmeal — has become repugnant. Offer her a spoonful of pear mash or peach goop and she scrunches up her face and pointedly stares the other way. At 14 months has she already determined that baby foods are, in fact, for babies?
I'd wager yes.
Fifteen minutes — and several trips up and down the hallway later — the main dishes arrived: wild mushroom risotto with truffle oil for Jon; sole with mashed potatoes and veggies for me. I scooped some potatoes on to a spoon's tip and held them out to the girl.
She devoured the creamy dollop, which wasn't surprising. I offered her more, followed by a fleck of fish. This, too, went down with gusto.
Taking a break from his risotto, Jon balanced a clump of the moist rice on the handle of his fork. He nudged it toward Roxy. She appraised the offering, took a bite and chewed tentatively for a moment. Then her eyes widened.
"I think she likes it," he said.
Roxy spent the rest of the meal leaning as far as she could toward the risotto plate, no matter where it was on the table. She protested when we took too long arranging the grains on our silverware. And even though she continued to accept bits of potato and sole, her focus was on the toothy, savory, peppery delights of the rice.
"She's our daughter," I said, watching her gulp down a particularly large bite. Then I flash-forwarded five years to preparing her school lunches, Tupperware and baggies at the ready, wondering whether to pack crackers with the crab and greens soup.