Mountain Man

Dear J-

Pretty mellow Sunday today, after some brief morning excitement (we continue to ignore the need for Mother’s Day reservations and trust restauranteurs who insist that so long as we get there at opening, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting seated: this is how you anger customers) we all came back home and had some cake (here I was set up by my niece, who asked if there was whip cream on it; upon replying affirmatively and enthusiastically, I was told that she didn’t like whip cream, thus the cake was a flop with at least one of us). I’m now aware of the power of peer pressure — figgy had happily eaten strawberries in cake before being told that strawberries were yucky, and now that’s it for that particular fruit for the moment, at least.

It’s hard enough to convince her that we’re not conducting cruel and unusual experiences when giving her something besides the usual meat and starches (and I suppose we’re relatively lucky as it is with the eating of meats), but I suppose the key is in making it fun and tasty — some things are easier than others, like corn versus broccoli. She’s already gotten some things engrained on her mind: curry rice, ramen noodles, coconut, mango, and chicken crackers are all reliable keys to the castle. Where we are is conducive to certain types of cuisine, and we do take advantage of the opportunities it presents.

At the end of this particular Mother’s Day we end up taking stock of where we are this year and how far we’ve come. Yet all the changes have been not at the pace we dictate, but the schedule she allows; it’s an object lesson in stubborn wills and immovable objects. And a year from now, who knows where we’ll be on the second Sunday in May? Is it worth worrying about? We shape, we guide, but we can’t push her on the tracks any more than we can move mountains overnight.



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