Soaring Through Blue

how to feed a baby






The first time I met Gladiola, she climbed onto me with a book and asked me to read it. She knew every detail, almost as if she'd heard the story before, many times, from her mother or father, who may have pointed out those details, every time. It was uncanny.

She was three.

After reading the book, she hopped down and said, "The lemonade stand is now open!" I asked for a gluten-free lemonade and she said "Comin' right up, big lady!" and served it right up, without skipping a beat.

She was still three.

How many three-year-olds know what gluten-free lemonade is? She's some kind of genius, that little one. I've eaten in many restaurants where the wait staff is completely flummoxed by my request for something as simple as gluten-free asparagus, and yet, here is a three-year-old who knows more than they do. Tears welled up behind the edges of my eyelids.

Later, again, as we sat and talked of things, with PapaChef lounging on the floor with his back to a piece of furniture, someone cracked a joke and we all doubled over in belly-pained guffaws. PapaChef didn't quite get the joke, immediately, so his giggles erupted from deep in his belly, after a few beats. Gladiola smacked him and said, "That was funny!" Which we still say, all of the time, around here, because it's so hilarious.

She was still only three.

And that's the kind of child she is. Smart, sophisticated, aware of my needs. Responsive to my humor. She gets me. And she was only three.

Later, still, she came to visit Midget Peanut in the ICU, which is the part of the hospital where they hook patients up to oxygen and IVs but don't restrict visitors at all, where kids can get into bed with infant patients if the mood strikes. No hysterics about spreading germs or viruses to newborns, unlike in some ICUs.

She was only four.

In the interests of full disclosure, I will say now that Gladiola's father is a very close friend of mine. I helped him write his book about feeding his little one. I read the first draft of it, and made a lot of constructive comments that I felt would improve it, then the second draft, because I have written two books now and I know how it's done, whereas he was new to it all, and needed my help, in order to be successful. I'm thanked in the acknowledgments. The publishers, lovely people all, asked me to write a blurb for the back cover. And, oh god, so did Anthony Bourdain, who is really famous, so my status in the literary world has risen, a bit. I'm sure Glad's father is grateful for my help. Certainly, I adored being helpful to him. I know a good book when I see one, and this one is great, especially the parts that I polished up. And also the back cover.

Yes.

It's a fiercely funny, tender book about a foodie (I used to call myself a foodie but since then I have decided it's a stupid term) father feeding his little one. It's so so so so so much better than other books about feeding babies, partly because I helped so much with it, but also because he's belly-hurting hilarious, comparing his child to a celebrity drug addict who has been the butt of millions of jokes for years. How can you not be amused by that? How can that not make you not want to read the rest of the book? There's something wrong with you if you don't. You are probably one of those wan, thin, listless types who have no sense of humor and who don't understand what it is to live to eat, constantly.

As I said, I know a good book when I see one, and this is a great book.

Buy it.

Read it.

Especially the back cover.

I will come after you, if you don't buy it.

You see, it's not like other books about feeding babies, which are all so damn sanctimonious and boring with their "facts" and "recommendations", the ones where it feels like the authors are peering into your shopping cart and making catty remarks about what you are buying, for your baby, judging, criticizing, sneeringly.

And really, feeding a baby? Who needs to read a book to do that? Just give them what you eat.

yes,
Shasta




Bacon & eggs for babies

Get a couple of eggs, preferably ones from the island but any free range organic eggs from chickens with amusing personalities will do if you can't get to the island, which I realize is not possible for most people to do.

Crack them into a vintage china bowl. Take a photo to honor the eggs.

Prepping the eggs. Whisk the eggs, gently at first, then with more vigor and fortitude, until they froth playfully around the edges, a scrim of bubbles across the surface like seafoam on an island beach.

Cooking the eggs. Bring a pan to moaning hot over medium heat. Place one flollop of free-range organic non-hydrogenized fresh island pork lard into the pan, and watch, entranced, as it sizzles to a soft puddley melt. Carefully nestle the liquid eggs into the lagoon of melted lard, breathing deeply of the porky scented goodness. Cook on slow heat until cooked through.

Meanwhile. Fry up half a pound minimum of free-range hickory smoked organic bacon from humanely raised and slaughtered island pigs, or Smithfield Foods brand if you don't live on the island. Drain the fat off into a bacon fat saver container, to use later in cookies, muffins, or as body salve.

Serving the eggs. Break off a tiny bit of bacon and tuck it into the eggs. Eat the rest of the bacon yourself so as not to waste it. Feed the eggs to the little one, watching intently for her face to light up when she gets to the bit of bacon tucked into the eggs. Rejoice, spontaneously. Finish whatever is left of the eggs, with more bacon as needed.