Grueling

As a quasi six-monther, Quinn has been inducted into the world of solid foods. Oh joy. Just when we have some stability with her diet, why not toss in a monkey wrench?!?

According to my Mom, she transitioned me to solid foods at six weeks. By that standard, Quinn has been living the lavish liquid diet for long enough.

Not that she'll stop drinking mama's milk any time soon, as I still have fourteen square feet of frozen milk to be consumed by Thanksgiving -- or else I'm making some seriously homemade holiday cookies. Watch out neighbors... might get more than you ever wanted for Christmas!

Too many studies show American kids are getting more obese at a younger age with each generation (it's equally pathetic for the English language that "obeser" is throwing its weight around to nudge its way into our lexicon).

Coming from a long line of farmers and cheese makers, it wasn't exactly popular when I went vegan for a few years... in part out of fear of becoming portly myself.

Had my parents tried to feed me the kind of slop I'm feeding Quinn, I would have been certain they were plumping me up to for the butcher's block like baby veal.

So it's a stretch to say what she's eating can be classified as truly "solid." More like paper mache. Which is awfully similar to the "gruel" my Dad forced me and a friend living with us to eat every day one summer.

The Story of the Family Gruel. . .

After going fishing with my brother-in-law, my Dad wasn't about to waste the leftover salmon heads from the fillets they made.

A little too much energy and being alone in the kitchen he added a little of this, a little of that, a dash of cayenne, a pinch of pepper, a splash of soy sauce -- threw it all into a blender -- with the treasured fish heads (eyeballs and all) and... wha la! Gruel!

The most vile concoction ever forced on a child by a loving parent.

Uncertain of how we endured or if we could again, the word "gruel" became taboo for more than a decade afterward.

To this day you can hear my Mom gasp, and catch her flashing me a look of fear and dismay as if I were about to utter something vulgar whenever I tip-toe in the direction of that memory as a means of teasing my Dad of his cooking "abilities."

Jack, on the other hand, truly qualifies as a self-taught cooking connoisseur. Me? Cooking? Not so much. (At the firehouse, guys would take pity and make me scrambled eggs after watching me screw that up a few times.)

Instead, I qualify as an excellent eater. I mean, I don't know about you, but I personally like food; in fact, I like it so much I eat more than enough every day.

So of course we'd love for our little girl to grow up to be a true foodie too. And, so far so good.

Even if our little Quinny-locks is eating porridge that looks and tastes like kindergarten glue (coming from someone who distinctly remembers), until she spits it back at me, it appears we have another bon viveur in the making.

Bon Appetit!

a Mama with Milk on the Menu and the Gruel-free Girl