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.