Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Mother India

You can take the mother out of India, but you can't take India out of the mother. I am living proof of the truth of this old adage and nowhere is this more evident, than with food.

When Adil turns his nose up at the meals I, so lovingly, prepare him, I experience the same pangs of rejection, of which my own mother, so bitterly complained. And despite firm resolutions to the contrary, I sometimes find myself chasing after him, with a bowl of food, ready to shovel its contents down his throat - much to his, and my own, disdain.


Of course, it doesn't help matters that he is currently a two-and-a-half-year-old, picky, moody, erratic eater, whose repertoire of acceptable foods, doesn't include anything colored green, orange, red, purple, blue, or yellow. Basically, we're talking large quantities of yogurt, white rice and pasta, with cheese.

Adil, meanwhile, is shooting up, like a weed. I blink and his clothes are tighter. Some mornings, I'm convinced that he's actually grown an inch, in his sleep.

I'm told that a toddler will never really starve himself, but no good Indian mother, worth her salt, is willing to buy that. We remain convinced that just a spoonful of cajoling, will help the yellow dal go down.

Oops, got to run! That big pot of penne, has come to a boil.

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