Keifel and I took the boychick out for Indian last night. Actually, we kind of forced him. He has been saying for months (years?) that he detests Indian food. It has been a hardship as I would prefer Indian out than most other options. We dragged him, kicking and screaming to Taste of India. And, after plying him with a Dr. Pepper which he never, ever gets at home, he agreed to try something.
We ordered a “cuisine basket” of pakoras, vegetable samosas and aloo tikki. The boychick has decided that aloo tikki and papadams are pretty good eats. He ordered tandoori chicken for his entree. Fairly safe, I thought, and the waiter offered a half portion for him.
After sating ourselves with a lovely meal of lamb biryani, malai kofta and perfect basmati rice, we packed up our leftovers and headed home.
Thinking about it this morning, I wonder if this will help him be more adventurous. After he agrees to try something he has long hated and decides he likes it, he always looks at me with those devilish hazel eyes of his and slyly says, “Hm. This is pretty good, but I still don’t like beans (or whatever is closely related to the thing he just enjoyed).” I always ask him if he really thinks I would implore him to eat something that was nasty or bad for him. I usually receive a somewhat defeated “no” in response to this.
The other night he said that I made “the best” dinners. This was unsolicited and vaguely off topic as I recall. When and if I am a professional chef, I doubt that I will ever get any higher praise than my son saying that to me.
I want him to grow up with a sense of home, despite all the moving about we have done. Knowing that he will have fond memories of dinners at home and out, makes me happy. And I hope, as he cooks more with both Keifel and me that he will have a greater sense of his own accomplishment in the kitchen.
And damn, I wish there wasn’t the worry about salmonella in eggs. Some of my fondest memories of cooking with my father are of licking the spoon.