The Worst Kind of Food Critic


Dealing With The Worst Kind Of Food Critic


Distracted by the challenge of becoming the birth coach for my daughter’s second child, developing Charmaine’s Muse Pallet  and my obsessive reporting about our environment at Neptune 911 has led Queen Six-Oh-Dear author astray.I’m half-way into that Six-Oh-Dear thing, and filled with more creativity and enthusiasm ever. Thank God!

Why thank God? Presently, after a successful night of birth coaching, I’m the chief cook for the daughter’s family–which includes the biggest, pickiest, most blunt food critic of all times–Quinlan.

Planet Quinlan, as he is best described, will soon be two. With four planets in Leo, including his Sun, he knows what he wants and doesn’t want. Food included.

A BFF recently noted that she doesn’t invite me to dinner because I’m too intimidating. I’m a decent cook but unaware that my skills are intimidating. I know if I invite folks for a dinner party, the table is full. No complaints.

An then there is the Planet. Hankering for some enchiladas, I made a chicken enchilada that had no spicy stuff in it…and lots of cheese. The Planet took a bite, pulled the chicken and corn tortilla from his mouth, announced, “Yucky! Trash,” as he handed the slightly chewed mess to his father. He makes a high end food critic seem timid.

Finally, after a week of inventing toddler food that we adults could eat with pleasure, I tossed a bowl of yucky veggies into the food processor, mixed it with ground sirloin and a dab of salt and ketchup, baked, prayed and served. Voila! We have a winner. “Yum! More!” announced my worst food critic.

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