I try to make food that’s more appealing to teenagers (think less beans and butternut squash, more meat and cheese) and bake sweets now and then, too.
The only thing I can think to do is roll up my sleeves and cook. He’s an almost-grown up, making his own decisions, even if they are bad ones, and spending his own money. It’s enough to make a mother - one who likes to cook and feed children - wring her hands. But how many takeout egg sandwiches should one 17-year-old eat in one week’s time? A couple? Four?)Īdd to this slices of pizza and giant burritos, french fries and milkshakes. (A note about these egg sandwiches: they are very, very good. I tease him, and wonder out loud if, when he walks into the corner market - the place where all the kids go for egg sandwiches – they call his name and cheer? Do they have a sandwich waiting for him on the counter every day? A special chair, maybe? He eats that many egg sandwiches. I’ve made them pancakes and lasagna, peanut noodles and tray after tray of chocolate chip cookies.īut then here’s my youngest child, funny kid that he is, and I realized one day a few months ago that he was eating out more than in, wolfing down pizza and sandwiches and burritos and more egg, cheese and bacon sandwiches in a week than most people eat in a year. I fed babies and toddlers, pre-teens and hordes and gobs of teenagers. I’ve been doing it for what feels like ages. In fact, I would put that at the top of the list. If I made a list of things I believe I’m good at, things I have excelled at in my lifetime, it would read something like this: planning parties and then partying at them (oh, how I love a good party) making salads reading books for very long stretches (that must count, somewhere as a skill) and, what I think is perhaps my greatest accomplishment, feeding children.
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