Blork

My dad was a notoriously picky eater when he was a child. There goes a Hamann folk story about the time he drove my kindly grandfather to near physical abuse by refusing to eat on an entire road trip out west.

Well, thankfully Elijah did not inherit that particular gene. Simply putting him in his high chair makes him wiggle his legs and open his mouth like a baby bird. And he eats everything. Peas, spinach, squash, mud (Can you pick out the joke food? Send your answer on a 3X5 card to “Easiest Contest Ever.”).

But he does have his limits. He can’t stand baby food pasta. I can understand. Who wants to eat room temperature, mushy starch? If you try to shove a spoonful into his mouth, he makes the most hilarious “What the *%%&^ is that?” face. Which, of course, is why I make him eat baby food pasta. Yeah, it’s cruel. But the faces are priceless. I’ll even do the applesauce sneak attack. He’ll be Da da da-ing with glee, enjoying mushed apples, and then I’ll sneak in a spoonful of gross pasta. Just to see the face.

But the rub is he will not swallow said pasta. He’ll just pack it in until his face reaches maximum capacity. At which point he’ll let it drop until his shirt, or if he really thinks you’re messing with him, he’ll spit it in your face.

Which is exactly what I deserve.