This Is Not Delicious

** IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE BLOGGER: This post is actually about how a certain class of cookie embodies the futile, broken dreams of Western civilization, but I take a really long time to get to the point. Sorry about that. In my defense, brevity might be the soul of wit but a didactic ramble is often its elaborate coffin, so, you know, have some respect. Also, writing about my doubleplus cute daughter is the only way I can smuggle in pictures that people actually want to look at and when you write blog posts this long it really is important to have pictures.** 

We've crossed a sad milestone here on Gumpen Village Street. It used to be that the child distinguished between things that were delicious and things that were disgusting. Now she recognizes that a lot of stuff is just...kind of okay. And I'm sad about it, because it is the beginning of the end of innocence.  

Waffles are delicious...for now.

There was a time when all food was good. Then she started rejecting stuff on the grounds that it was "yucky", "disgusting," or "spicy" -- more recently, "sour" or "nasty". These judgments are delivered with a look of horror, a grasping of the tongue and sometimes tears and even spitting. 

But at least it was cute. Like the rosemary incident. One dinner a couple months ago Noodle was tucking into a fresh bowl of pasta with tomato sauce, which she loves, when she froze. Mid-bite. 

Dammit, I thought. I knew it. 

"This is a stick," the Noodle said to me with distate, holding up a single, tiny rosemary leaf. 

"It's rosemary," I said. "It's an herb." 

Noodles with sticks. This photo is a poor recreation of the offending dish.

She peered into her bowl. "No, this is a stick." She went in like a monkey looking for fleas. "Look! Other stick."

She held each leaf up demonstratively before smearing it onto the table. "Stick," she said. "Stick. Stick." You stupid, stick-hiding fiend, she thought to herself. It was a long dinner. 

But in the weeks since she turned two, there is a third, sadder category of food: Stuff she'll eat but without pleasure. 

Rice crackers, for example. Our go-to playground snack. One recent day she looked up at me, rice dust on her lips, and noted: "This...this is not really delicious, Mommy." And then with a hint of sorrow she polished off the rest. 

Or last week. She was eating my soup and seemed to be enjoying it, so I went fishing for compliments. "Mmm, is it yummy?" I asked. "No," she said with a shrug, "It's not really yummy." And kept eating. 

In fact, the only things that she finds delicious are, I'm afraid, things that everyone finds delicious, like ice cream and candy and cheese. (And plain black bread, for some reason, but I'm sure that'll end soon too.) 

And I guess this makes me sad because it means the way is prepared for her to experience disappointment. The let down. The long slow process of becoming jaded. Heck, one day soon she's going to realize that sorting rocks and riding the bus to the supermarket actually constitute a fairly shitty Saturday, and then what will I do?  

On the other hand, it's an achievement that she can distinguish between things that are delicious and things that we eat because they keep us regular. It means she has a sense of personal taste. Maybe she'll be less likely to buy in to stupid fads. 

Which brings me to the actual reason I started this blog post. Ready? 

MACAROONS ARE NOT DELICIOUS.* 

I mean, HELLLOOOOOOO. They are not delicious, and they do not even keep us regular. 

Destined to break your heart. Actually I never made this recipe, so I shouldn't judge, but I will.
No macaroons are actually delicious.

Ya. Macaroons. That is what this post is really about. Macaroons are the insipid, overplayed arm candy of the confection world. And if one more shitty schlock shop starts selling these by the checkout counter, I might scream. Is there no escape? Every airport. Every bourgie supermarket. Every bakery. 

Sure, they're pretty to look at. Their smooth, bland form allows for fun with color and indeed many are beautiful. It's obvious why the people have been Instagramming them ever since Instagram was invented. But #yum? Please. 

Et tu, McDonalds? REALLY? 

Macaroons are disappointment itself. To bite into a macaroon is to feel your hopes dashed and, worse, to feel like a sucker for having hoped your stupid hopes in the first place. How could you have believed that something so beautiful would actually taste good? 

A bit Orwellian, really.

Remember that scene in American Beauty (reach way back, guys) where Kevin Spacey's character finally gets the girl of his burning imagination and then it turns out she's just a clueless child onto whom the man has been projecting his remarkably lame fantasies? They didn't even need to make that whole movie. Alan Ball could have just passed around a box of macaroons and waited until everyone took a bite and been like, "That? That feeling you just had? That's what our movie is about". 

Macaroons are not disgusting (actually, I had a foie gras-stuffed one this summer that was SUPER disgusting, but that was an exception). They are just...nothing. They are okay. But you should only eat food that is just okay if it contains vitamins or supports your ability to poop. 

You should definitely not be paying (way) upwards of fifteen euros for six cookies that are just sort of okay. Bizarre liver-based varieties notwithstanding, your average macaroon is made out of egg whites and food coloring. Sure, the gorgeous cardboard boxes are fit to be used as the display sarcophagi of tiny dead pharaohs, but still. Have we lost our damn minds? The Emperor is naked, y'all, and has been for years. 

Laduree has boxes fit to bury tiny Care Bear kings. Still not that delicious though.

Enough already. Let's go back to eating rice crackers and cupcakes. I mean real cupcakes. The kind that don't have a three-inch butter-boner on their heads...and on that note, I'm going to stop because I feel another food rant coming on. 

Oh man. This blog post is such a macaroon. 

-------------

*Betcha didn't see that one coming, eh? Keeping it fresh. 

Domestic Bliss: A Recipe for Minestrone Soup

There are blogs, terrible novels and a good number of cooking shows that would have you believe that the apex of domestic bliss is this: Mama is in her cozy kitchen, children at her feet, preparing a nutritious meal for her family. She is calm, her hair is good. Perhaps her sweet son or daughter helps her to stir the pot. A cat and a pot of basil share a spot on sunshine on the windowsill. It smells like peaches and vanilla. Outside, birds chirp a little song. Come with me. Peek into my Monday. Let us cook this delicious minestrone together.

(I forgot to take pictures.)

MINESTRONE

Ingredients

Gather these from the supermarket in a hurry on your way home from work. Your husband has committed to getting your daughter from kindergarten. This means you have about an hour before they get home. Run! 

• 1/2 pound (about 1 1/4 cups) dried white beans such as Great Northern, picked over and rinsed 
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 pound pancetta (Italian cured pork belly, available at Italian markets and specialty foods shops) or sliced lean bacon, chopped
• 1/3 cup olive oil
• 1 onion, chopped
• 1 large carrot, cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 1 rib of celery, cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 3 garlic cloves, chopped fine
• 2 zucchini, scrubbed and cut into 1/2-inch dice
• 1/4 pound green beans, trimmed and cut into 1/2-inch pieces
• 1/2 pound boiling potatoes
• 4 cups shredded green cabbage (preferably Savoy)
• 1/2 pound kale, rinsed, drained, stems discarded, and the leaves chopped (about 6 cups)
• a 28-ounce can tomatoes, chopped coarse and drained well
• 4 1/2 cups chicken broth (preferably low-salt)

• freshly grated Parmesan, garlic bruschetta , and dry-cured sausages as accompaniments

Pick me up!

Preparation

Get home. Good news: Noodle and Daddy aren't here yet! Bad news: there is cat pee in the hallway, AGAIN. Those filthy animals. Drape toilet paper across the mess. You have no time for this now. You have veggies to prep before all hell breaks loose. 

Despite having destroyed the hallway, the cats expect to be fed. Feed them. Try not to have a terrible attitude about it. Also try not to slice your finger open on the can again. Dammit, again!

Okay, okay. Focus on cooking. But first, you need to take off your suit jacket. Also the skirt. But no time to change anything else; stand in the kitchen in your pantyhose and blouse. Pretend this is empowering. Wash the vegetables while you read the recipe on your laptop; try not to drip water into the keyboard. This looks like a great recipe. Shame about all the steps. Why can't you ever cook anything simple, for Gof's sake? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Alright. No big deal. Multi-tasking. Women are awesome at multi-tasking, you read it on IFLscience or something. 

First step: Let the beans soak overnight. Ha! What kind of a**hole has time for that? You bought canned beans, like a boss. Go ahead and puree half of them now, because later there will be a toddler around, and putting toddlers and immersion mixers in the same space is basically like combining monkeys and guns. Ha. Yes. You feel very smug and organized for having thought of this. You'd totally say that if you were on your own cooking show. 

"Remember, everyone," you'd say, in your best Mary Berry voice. "Blend your beans before your child gets home! Would you leave monkeys in a room full of guns?" 

Next step: crisp the pancetta in a pot. Simultaneously peel carrots, chop celery, slice garlic. This is so totally under control. Add the veggies to the pot. You have four whole minutes to chop the next set of veggies. This is easy. 

The click of keys. "Hi babes, we're home!" says Alex. 

Uh-oh. 

"Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy!" says Noodle, racing down the hallway. She may or may not have a little sheet of cat-urine soaked toilet paper attached to her rain boot. 

From down the hall, the husband calls: "Wow, you couldn't clean this up?" You ignore him as he mutters and cleans up cat pee. 

"Hello my love! How was kindergarten?" you ask the Noodle, smiling. Aww. It's so great to see this kid. What a cutie. 

"Up! Mommy, up!" She says. You hoist her up. 

"Look! Mommy is making minestrone. That is a kind of soup," you explain, stirring the veggies. 

"Cheese?" she asks. 

Current favorite food EVER, which, frankly, who can blame her.

"No," you say. "No cheese. You had a snack at kindergarten. Let's wait until dinner."

"Wahhhh!" she cries. 

"Mommy has to chop some more veggies now, so I have to put you down," you say. You turn your face toward your husband, who appears to be dawdling. "MOMMY HAS TO CHOP SOME MORE VEGGIES NOW." 

"CHEESE!" screams the Noodle. 

Daddy appears. "No cheese," he says, to great wailing and gnashing of teeth. "You want grapes?" Grapes are okay. He has no comment on your attire, because standard.  

They disappear with a bunch of grapes, and you frantically chop: zucchini, green beans and...motherf***cker, potatoes too? Where is the peeler. Where is the peeler. There! OH MY GOD. Peel, chop. Chuck, stir. 

"Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy. Mommy."

"Yes, darling," you say, as you pick apart a head of kale. 

"Cheese?"

"How about you go read a book on the couch with Daddy? Does that sound like fun?" you say.  What is that man doing? Is he...omg, is that Facebook? "ALEX!"

"Alex!" says the Noodle. "Alex! Cheese!"

"Daddy," you say. "Go play with your daddy." 

"Come read a book with me, Noodle," says Daddy. He holds up Good night, Gorilla enticingly. It is the current favorite. 

"Elmo?"

"No, a book." 

"Tubbies?"

"How about this book?" 

"Of course." Noodle toddles off. 

Chop the kale. You've decided to skip the green cabbage, because if there is one thing you've learned in life, it's that if you make a recipe that uses only "4 cups of shredded green cabbage" you will shortly thereafter have half a head of slowly rotting cabbage in the back of your fridge. "Don't forget," you tell the imaginary cameras in your imaginary giant, airy kitchen. "Kale and cabbage are basically the same thing anyway! Ahahaha!" 

Angelic giggles tinkle out of the living room, and Daddy is reading. You smile beatifically.

Add the kale to the pot, stir until wilted...Stir until wilted. Wilt. Come on. Wilt already. Oooh, you could go cut some basil why you wait, since you actually have some for a change! Oh. THAT'S wilted. And...did the cats eat some too? Oh. My. God. Daddy and Noodle have finished two whole books. Check on the kale, which is still kind of like the soles of combat boots. American kale wouldn't do this, you think. This is just some b.s. Austrian pseudo-kale. You should have bought the green cabbage. 

Little feet pad sweetly across the floor. 

"Mommy, book," says Noodle. She is standing by your feet with a book. Reading is really good for you and you should encourage it. Reading is probably even better for you than minestrone. Could this recipe take any longer? Seriously. 

"Why don't you read with Daddy, honey?" you say.

"Because I already read two books with him, idiot," says Noodle. She doesn't actually say that, but you can hear it in your head. 

"Look! Daddy is playing with blocks. Why don't you join him?" you say. Daddy clicks the blocks together, optimistically. (He's so great, you think, in a footnote).  

Noodle points her finger in your face. "I haven't seen you all day, because all you care about is going to work, and now you're ignoring me. You will not read me Hop on Pop even though when I say the word 'pop' your heart nearly does." 

What she actually says is: "UUUUUP! CHEESE!"

It is really very, very warm in the kitchen. And very cramped. And the floor is suddenly covered in something sticky. 

You breathe deeply and try to remain calm. You feel terrible. Toddlerhood is short and precious. The days are long but the years are short. Cherish this moment. Be in this moment. Do not think about cigarettes at all. Think about the precious, fleeting, beauty of childhood. You're going to miss this, right? Actually, you know you are. That's the f***ing tragedy of the thing. 

You pick her up. "Hi, lovely. No cheese. But do you want to watch me make the soup? You can help, okay?" 

Add the tomatoes--try not to cut your child while opening the cans! Now add the "broth", i.e. 4.5 cups of water and soup cube. Hey, remember when you used to make broth from scratch? Meditatively skimming chicken foam while This American Life ran in the background. You'd drink tea, and smoke cigarettes out the window. Oh my God I LOVE cigarettes. 

"Soup!" says Noodle. 

"Do you love soup?" you ask. Foolishly, self-indulgently. "Does this look yummy?"

"No!" she says. "No! CHEESE!"

Breathe more.The Om Shanti part of your brain wins out against the part that desires to put your face through the wall. But it's a close call. 

Your arm is breaking with 11 kg of toddler, but hey, you're almost finished. Check the recipe. Scroll down. Hm hm hm. Ah yes. 

Cover the pot and simmer...for an hour? AN HOUR? This kid will be asleep in an hour! 

The Om Shanti part of your brain is no longer winning. You mysteriously want to actually...cry? Is THAT this feeling you are feeling? Ew. Unacceptable. You are a professional. Also a domestic goddess. There are no problems. There are challenges. And challenges have solutions. 

"Would you like some cheese and bread?" you ask. "And, um, this nutritious carrot?"

"Cheese!" she says happily. And cheese for dinner it is. 

Look into the camera with a knowing smile and a wink. "And remember, if you wish to avoid any fuss you can make this soup a day ahead. Just refrigerate and re-heat! No one will ever know the difference."

***

P.S. This recipe from epicurious.com was actually totally delicious, and even the Noodle liked it...the next day. Highly recommend. 

P.P.S I seriously have no idea how other people dis-attach their small children (plural! I have only one and can't manage!) from their legs while they are, for example, wielding large knives or manipulating hot fat. Please tell me your secrets.