Last Things First

Tomorrow my picky eater goes to college, and after 18 years, what she eats will be someone else's problem, mainly hers. Born to a pair of foodie parents, it probably hasn't been any easier for her than it has for us. And, by moving to the Eastern seaboard, from the vegetarian friendly environs of northern California, she has set herself a significant challenge. Let's just hope that they serve plenty of udon and fried plaintains in the dining hall.

Picky eaters don't mean to be difficult; and they generally have a fairly reasonable explanation as to why they don't want to eat something. "It tastes too spicy, too slimy, too hot, too cold, too strong," we've heard them all. The problem is that the hardcore picky eater would rather starve than eat something objectionable. My particular picky eater has a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde aspect to her personality that appears out of nowhere when her blood sugar gets too low.  And, it is when the picky eater travels eating is at its most challenging, provoking alarming and humorous incidents that make great stories after the fact.

For instance, there was the temper tantrum of unknown origin that struck in the venerable Paris restaurant Thomieux before we even had had a chance to order. Despite the fact that my husband promptly removed the bawling child, we were subsequently treated like smallpox carriers, with none of the waiters or diners willing to come within 6 feet of us. The pampered poodles nestled under the tables and perched discreetly on the banquettes were much more welcome than we were. Needless to say, we hightailed it out of there, dashing with the stroller at maximum velocity- you would have thought that we had robbed the till!