Picture this: my grandmother once served a plate of meatballs over rice, declaring that I wouldn’t leave the table until I had eaten every last bite. There I was, sobbing into my plate of ground beef while she stood her ground. Hours passed, and my protests grew louder, yet there was no mercy. No drink to wash them down, no ketchup to mask the flavor. Eventually, I forced myself to swallow them, one dry, revolting mouthful at a time. That moment remains etched in my memory as one of my most striking experiences with Gram.
You see, growing up, no one — and I mean no one — made me eat things I didn’t want to. Sure, they offered me a variety of foods with kindness. “Want to try the steak? The tacos? The prunes?” My answer was always a definitive no. My mother would simply shrug and head to the stove to boil a pot of water. While the rest of my family feasted on cheesesteaks or pork and sauerkraut, my meals consisted of either buttered noodles or bright-orange Kraft mac and cheese. Each dinner was accompanied by green beans and corn, plus a generous veggie tray, ensuring I didn’t completely miss out on nutrition.
There was even a time when my aunt jokingly claimed that Kraft had gone belly up. You can imagine my despair; I howled like a banshee. They clearly didn’t expect such an over-the-top reaction, but that mac and cheese was my lifeline.
I thrived on pasta largely because my beloved Mom-Mom never forced her youngest child — my mother — to eat anything she found unappealing. In turn, my mom believed that I should have the same freedom. Thus, my childhood was largely devoid of all meats except chicken. Seafood? The aroma of cooking shrimp was enough to make me feel queasy. Cabbage? Absolutely revolting. This aversion meant I skipped out on sauerkraut and many soups. In fact, I was almost entirely against soup. When my family opted for Taco Bell, we first had to swing by McDonald’s for fries — just fries, because I wouldn’t touch any fast-food meat. And Cheerios? Forget about it. Who in their right mind doesn’t like Cheerios?
Fast forward to college, where my unwavering love for buttered noodles was put to the test. I was firmly in the chicken-finger-and-fries camp but also didn’t want to come off as uncultured. So, I tentatively tried my first steak. To my surprise, once I meticulously trimmed off every bit of fat, I actually enjoyed it. My friends introduced me to exotic delights like feta cheese and avocados — items that were nonexistent in my small-town upbringing. I even gave chicken tacos a shot instead of my old nemesis, ground beef. Slowly but surely, my palate expanded.
It wasn’t without effort. Seafood remains off-limits due to a combination of fish phobia and a dislike for creepy-crawly creatures. However, I can now devour a hamburger with the best of them, much to my mother’s delight when she witnessed the transformation.
I didn’t turn out spoiled. I don’t expect anyone to drop everything just to prepare me a special meal. My husband, who enjoys culinary experimentation, sometimes cooks dishes I can’t stand — think haggis, not hamburgers. When he does, bless his heart, he usually throws a salad my way or warms up a plate of nachos. I don’t feel entitled to this; when offered, I often suggest making my own meal. When he declines (thankfully, since his vinaigrette outshines mine), I’m genuinely appreciative. Still, my mom remains the reigning queen of noodle preparation in my heart.
And malnourished? Hardly. I always had access to veggies. My grandmother ensured they were plentiful at every meal and even provided them as snacks. True, I could have used more protein and calcium, particularly since plain milk was only palatable when paired with cereal. But we made sure to stock up on Nestle Quik back in the good ol’ 80s. I survived, I grew, and I thrived.
Had anyone forced my hand to eat what I detested, I likely would have remained stubborn. It took me four long hours to consume those wretched meatballs, thanks to some stern threats. Imposing such rules might have led to malnutrition. And if they’d insisted I try seafood? Let’s just say nobody wants a seafood-induced vomit incident at the dinner table.
While buttered noodles and Kraft mac and cheese might not be the pinnacle of health, I ensure my children have alternatives like a PB&J, an apple, or a banana. As long as I’m not required to cook, they can choose those instead of the main dish. They rarely take me up on it, never go hungry, and we avoid food battles.
Aside from the Meatball Incident, I don’t recall any food conflicts during my childhood. You ate when you were hungry, and a banana was always an option. My kids enjoy the same freedom.
So let’s put an end to the food wars. They’re simply not worth it. I navigated a childhood filled with extreme pickiness, refusing even lightly toasted white bread, and yet I thrived. I was athletic, galloping atop enormous horses without a mounting block and jumping 4-foot fences. I did track, which meant running six miles a day during practice. And believe it or not, I didn’t even try a sub sandwich until I was 15.
I am incredibly thankful my mother never engaged in food battles with me. I was finicky, sensitive to strong flavors and certain textures. Many kids share similar experiences. So, let them be. And perhaps whip up some buttered noodles for them.
For more on navigating parenting challenges, check out our related post on home insemination kits here. If you want to delve deeper into understanding your child’s emotional needs, this resource offers valuable insights. Additionally, for anyone interested in pregnancy and fertility topics, Cleveland Clinic’s podcast is an excellent resource.
In summary, I survived a picky childhood without being pushed into food battles. With a little understanding and flexibility, kids can flourish even with selective eating habits.