Avery has develoed what is known as picky-eater-syndrome a discriminating palate in recent weeks.  She turns up her nose at all types of food that don’t include the words french and fries in the title.  If a meal contains such vile items at green peppers or onions we might as well be asking her to eat barbed wire, her protests are that outraged. 

“I DON’T LIKE ONIONS!  BLECH!” 

It is driving us a bit crazy because a) we want her to learn to eat a variety of foods, but mostly b) we want her to eat enough supper that she does not start begging for breakfast one hour after we put her to bed.  Cruel and unreasonable we may be, but this is the reality at our house. 

In the past few days Avery has refused to lower herself to consume chicken fajitas, curried salmon, and pasta alfredo.  Lest you think our diet is too exotic for a three year old (ha!) she has eaten all these foods before and generally found them satisfying.  But after achieving this new level of enlightenment she disdains all nourishment.  Food!  Food is for mortals!  We do not require sustenance!  We are threeeeee!!!! (insert evil laugh) 

Last night we prepared for the usual battle.  You never know what is ahead, although we believed that our choice of powdered cream of broccoli soup did not contain anything too offensive.  Surely it doesn’t contain any actual broccoli.  Unfortunately, in the pre-dinner chaos, I didn’t pay enough attention and the soup, which naturally includes milk, got scalded.  If you’ve ever eaten something with scalded milk you’ll know that it is a pretty foul taste, akin to eating burned rubber.  I prepared for the onslaught of protests of IT’S YUCKY! BLECH!!  Of course, I couldn’t blame her.  I certainly wasn’t interested in eating it.

What does my daughter say after tasting the soup?  “Mommy, how did you make this DEE-LICIOUS soup?” as she chows down, amazed at her mother’s excellent cooking skills.  The secret is in the sprinkling of the powdered soup when the combined milk and water have just begun to burn to the bottom of the pan.  I should write a cookbook. 

I pray to God this girl does not become a restaurant critic.  Chefs everywhere will be slitting their wrists.