Sweet Potato Madness

When Owen first started eating solid foods, we started off with bananas and then added pears and apples (both organic) to the mix.  He seemed to love them, and love eating so I figured it was time to move on to vegetables.  I thought that my best bet was sweet potatoes, though one could argue that a sweet potato's vegetable status us somewhat dubious.  In make your own baby food world sweet potatoes have a stellar reputation, they are virtually the baby gourmet equivalent of foie-gras (minus the unethical tarnish) so I thought I was in easy home-run territory.  So, I purchased some wonderful organic sweet potatoes, steamed them, pureed them with some fresh breast milk and presented them to a smiling Owen.  He leaned his mouth forward to take the spoon heaped high with a mountain of orange glory, took it in his mouth and then promptly spit it out with such force that it painted my face, his high chair, and even the wall behind me.

I took this as a sign that he needed another bite.  After all everyone says that babies can not develop a like or dislike for a food until they have tried it several times.  I thought perhaps if I added a train noise and roller-coaster swoop as I brought the spoon towards his mouth he might find it more enjoyable, much like baby dinner theater.  This time he spit it out so hard it landed on the ceiling fan.  This time the message was clear - Owen did not like dinner theater.  I tried a third time as the cat wisely hid under a chair just in time.  Then I gave up, put the spoon down and peeled a banana.

Over the next few weeks, I tried sweet potatoes a few more times but all to the same effect, though the furniture suffered less as I learned to cover everything with TV's Dexter's kill-room like precision.  He learned to love several other foods he originally hated: peas, spinach, zucchini, but alas the poor potato that helped so many Irish survive was the eternal pariah, that is until one momentous Tuesday.

We were over at our friend G_____________'s house having "music class."  (As an aside I know it is ridiculous to use a letter and a dash to refer to people but I quite enjoy the Austen/Bronte quality of it and no one really asked to be written about in my blog so I want to protect the innocent) Music class mostly consists of having music on in the background as four babies crawl around occasionally banging on a xylophone but mostly chewing on maracas and batons.  At some point, I stopped and fed Owen his lunch of papaya and mango that I had brought with me but after he ate he still seemed hungry.  G___________'s mother brought out some food for all the babies and offered some to us.  It was of course, sweet potato.  But it was not just sweet potato, it had been cooked in a slow cooker with onions, pork, salt and pepper.  I took a bowl without great hope but Owen had that piranha/succubi mouth action going so I put the spoon in. And lo and behold, he LOVED it.  I could not shovel it in fast enough.  He lurched towards the spoon as soon as he had swallowed, gasping and grunting for more.  Before I knew it, the bowl was empty.

He lurched forward again, mouth agape and met an empty spoon.  "It's all gone baby," I said as his mouth started to twitch.  I added the sign language for 'all done' in case that would help clarify things but before the knowledge could sink it he started to sob.  And not just the 'I am slightly upset sob' of discontent but a full-on body shaking wail.  As he screamed at the top of his lungs, tears coursed down his face as he shook so hard I thought he might be having a seizure.  He reached out his hands towards the bowl and looked at me in desperation.

"What's wrong with him?"  one of my friends asked.

"Um, I think he wants more," I said, mildly embarrassed at Owen's clear lack of table manners and gratitude.  Luckily, instead of being horrified G_________'s mom found this cute.  I guess in some ways it was a huge compliment on her cooking, if somewhat of a condemnation of mine.  Apparently even babies can recognize the difference a little salt, pepper, and pork fat bring to an otherwise annoying vegetable.  (It is here I will confess that I actually hate sweet potatoes as well but also found these to be delicious.)  So, we stole some sweet potatoes from the other babies who were less gluttonous and Owen sighed in contented relief as a full spoon of  porky potatoes made their way into his mouth.

I was so inspired by this that I decided to repeat the experiment at home, making my own slow-cooker concoction of similar ingredients.  And I can honestly say, it had nothing with trying to heal my wounded sense of pride at my own food having been rejected with a vigor equivalent to the joy the other was received.  

And low and behold, the porky-potatoes were a hit!  I tried to snap photos to show my friend the joy that her recipe had inspired at home, but it is hard to take pictures while a baby demands to be fed his third bowl.  So, I don't know if sweet potatoes have made it to banana status yet but I have learned that apparently babies, like their moms, find foods more enjoyable when they are actually, well enjoyable.

It also made me feel genetics is no joke because to be honest, it is only a sense of propriety that keeps me from wailing sometimes when I clean my plate, or more likely, it's because I have mastered the skill of refilling my plate on my own.   My third most infamous childhood story is centered around a reaction to food deprivation wherein I was so incensed I stomped on the floor until the chandelier beneath me was shaken free.   My first and second involve lecturing my nursery school teacher about birth control and drinking out of discarded glasses of beer at a state-fair - both before I was six.  I'm sorry mom and Dad.

Payback's a b. . bowl of potatoes.

Our Very First Commercial - Or How We Sold Out For A Bag Of Licorice

I'm pretty sure that Owen is the cutest baby in the world.  Well, maybe not the world, but at least in New York City.  I fully expect baby model scouts to approach us at all times and ask for Owen to sign up with them.  And not those creepy people who might approach you in the mall and tell you you should be a model and all you need to get started is $1000 which you will most likely get back, well never.  No, I expect the bonafide, "you oughta be in pictures" approach.

To be fair to myself, this is based on cold, hard fact, not just the delusions and hubris of a first-time mother.  People often stop us on the street and tell me that Owen could be the Gerber baby, that he is in fact the ideal, or platonic form of baby. . just saying. . . But so far, no contracts, despite our walking slowly by movie sets and coffee shops where advertising scouts probably hang out scouting for the "Next Little Big Thing."  (FOX please take note, this could be your next great competition show. Little Babies, Big Dreams.)

And then, finally on Tuesday it happened!  We were discovered.  Well, or at least we were there.

I was sitting in Washington Square Park with a friend and her baby, trying to have a play date.  Her baby was only mildly co-operating because he is HALF of Owen's age and this means a lot in baby land.  At some point this does not mean as much.  No one in fact would be shocked because my husband is a whole three months older than me but when three months is your entire life, it seems to matter.  And then, we were approached by a film crew.  I saw them walking towards us with a look of determination in their eyes.  I would like to imagine they were thinking, "We have to run and get to that remarkable baby before anyone else."  More likely they were thinking, "We have to run and get to those women before they see us coming and run away."

"So, you two are mothers right?"  they asked.  Part of me was tempted to say, "Nope, baby thieves," but who knows if CPS has a very elaborate undercover agent system in place to make sure I'm still not shaking my baby, so we just nod.

"Well, you are ideal people to be in our licorice commercial," they say.  "Would you like to be in a commercial?"

"No," my friend interjects.

"Are you sure?" he asks, "You are perfect."

"No," she says. "Seriously, go away."

But, the fact is I would very much like to be in a commercial but about twenty pounds ago when I still had time to actually lint-roll the cat hair of my clothes. "I haven't brushed my hair in two days," I say, noticing that nowhere among the crew is a make-up person. But, I am bored and feel like this is something to fill my day.  At the very least it's more interesting than changing a diaper.

 "You look great," says the liar/director. "All you have to say is, 'Once you get a taste of it, I just can't get enough of my Darrell Lea.' Only catch is you have to do it in an Australian accent. Can you do an Australian accent?"

"I can mimic one if I hear it,"  I say.  "But you know, what you just did, was a pretty awful Australian accent?"

"I know," he says, "but I'm sure you can do better."

"What's our model fee?" I ask as my friend looks like she would rather shoot them, than shoot a commercial.

"You get to keep the licorice," he says, holding up a bag. "It's really good licorice."

"Does it count towards his SAG card?" I ask, just to be annoying because, well motherhood is sometimes boring, and this is amusing me.

"No," he says, not amused.  "We're pretty low-budget here, just trying to pay our mortgages."

"What about my mortgage?" I ask. "I've been un-employed since November."

"It's easy," he says, and feeds me the line again.

"This isn't Candid Camera?"  I ask and they assure me it is not. "Well, how about I just make my baby say the line?" I suggest, apparently willing to exploit Owen.  "Look," I say, holding him up, "this will be much funnier and he is quite photogenic." I hold him in front of my face and deliver the line in a very mediocre Australian accent.

"That's actually wonderful," the director says and the whole crew agrees. They make me do another take and film it.  "He looks great on camera," the director says and the whole crew looks and agrees.  "Now, can you do it one more time but make his mouth move?"   It's at this point that I'm pretty sure that the man has never had a kid.  I think he has been watching too many e-trade baby commercials and thinks it's just magic.  I  want to point out that it's probably done in editing and if not those e-trade babies are at least twice Owen's age and in baby land. . well, you know.

"Probably not," I say but we try another take.  I don't know if his mouth moves because he's facing away from me but they seem overjoyed.  Then then have me sign the model release form for Owen.  Owen keeps grabbing the pen which makes it hard for me to write and they seem to be getting impatient.  I want to point out that we just shot a commercial for free but instead I slow down and read the entire release.  "Just to be clear," I ask, you can only use this for this commercial right?  I'm not granting you a release to use his image for anything else?"  (See I only partially exploit Owen, I am no spring chicken, I know how to protect him from the seedy underworld of media exploitation.)

"No," they say.  "It's just for this commercial.  It will only be on the interwebs."   I want to point out that it's really wrong to pluralize the slang interweb, as the fact that it is all connected makes it a web so really can't be pluralized but I let it go.

They hand us a bag of licorice and two coupons.  "It's really good," director man says.  "You can buy it at Whole Foods."  And as fast as they came into our lives, off they went.

So, who knows if this commercial will ever see the light of day.  Last time some commando camera crew tried to film me I never saw it again.  They said they were from the news and filmed me washing my car in my cut-off shorts and a tank top.  (This was about 30 pounds and fifteen years ago.)  I did find it odd that they were driving a black van and had no identification so I said no.  Also, they didn't even have the decency to offer me candy.

So, look for us on the interwebS.  I'm sure Owen will be genius though I don't know how everyone who sees it will track us down for more work.  I guess I'll have to go about it the hard way and keep stalking movie sets.



Owen with his paycheck.