SOME MORE BREAD

Dear Spike:

You: "May I have some more bread?"

Your mom: "Hey, you took my bread!"

You: "Thank you, mommy, you are very helpful."

Love,
dad

FOR A FRY

Dear Spike:

You were sleeping between your mother and I. And we were sharing a plate of french fries.

We were almost finished when you suddenly bolted upright and stared down at the nearly empty plate.

"Some?" you asked, reaching for a fry.

You popped the fry in your mouth and began to chew, but your eyes rolled back in your head and you fell backward. When you hit the pillow, you bolted up again, eyes open once more, and reached for another fry.

You were able to down three or four more before your eyelids finally won the battle and you fell back asleep — with a content little smile on your ketchup-stained face.

Love,
dad

FATTEN YOU UP

Dear Spike:

No snacking between meals.

It seems counterintuitive, given that we're trying to fatten you up for the winter, but that's what the doctor ordered.

Except today, walking back from the park and past the chocolate studio around the corner (two parts blessing, one part curse, five parts yummy) I sort of forgot about the new rules and bought you a chocolate-covered strawberry.

Don't tell the doctor, OK?

Love,
dad

MILK MILK MLIK

Dear Spike:

Since you are a wee bit of a wee bit, I suppose it's not a bad thing that you're such a fan of whole milk.

If I chugged that stuff the way you do, I wouldn't be able to fit in our front door. But so long as you keep putting on the pounds (OK — the ounces) you can have all you want.

I do wish you were not quite so obsessive about it. Honestly, I think you might be a milkaholic. It's the first thing you ask for in the morning, the thing you beg for before every nap and the thing you can't go to sleep without first having at night.

Milk. Milk. Milk-milkity-milk-milk-milk.

Not water. Not juice. Not even that buck-a-bottle drinkable yogurt stuff.

As obsessions go, it could be worse. And since you're doing your part to keep the hard-working dairy farmers of America in business, we won't be sending you to any 12-step programs just yet.

Love,
dad

YOU GROW HUNGRIER

Dear Spike:

We took your grandparents out to eat at the Red Iguana, one of our favorite restaurants, on the west side of town this evening.
You flirted with the staff and stole the lime from my margarita and went gonzo all over your tres leches cake. The rest of us dined on lovely moles and battered, stuffed, pickled jalapeños, and amazing cochintias pibil, and spicy puntas de filete.

Sometimes food is just food. But once in a while it is an experience unto itself — a centerpiece for an entire evening of enchanted conversation.

I'm not smart about food. Not like our good friend Lesli, who writes about food like Shakespeare wrote about love. But I do know when I'm having an experience, as opposed to a simple meal. And when that occurs, I do my best to play proper homage.

There are a few places our family dines at which we can always count on an experience, and at which I imagine you'll be challenging your palate as you grow hungrier for food and for life. For Mexican, it's the Red Iguana. For Lebanese, it's Mazza. For Sudanese, alas, there is no standing restaurant in town, but there is a group of refuge women that often opens shop in a little stand at festivals and the farmer's market. For meatball sandwiches and Philly cheesesteaks, it's Moochie's. And for pizza, it's The Pie.

If there's a joy that stands above all others in the overly blessed country we live in, it just might be our access to the great foods of the world. And if there is one great national shame, it just might be the transaturated Trojan horse we've delivered to the world in the form of places like McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and Taco Bell.

As I've told you many times before, there is a time and a place for everything — even for fast food.

But when you have a choice, choose to treat food as more than a quick-fix for a rumbling belly. Choose the experience.

Choose to be enchanted.

Love,
dad

P.S. — Your mother tells me that, because your grandparents paid for our meal this evening, they took us out for dinner. But since I drove the car, I'm sticking to my story.

FEW MORE POUNDS

Dear Spike:

We visited Dr. Schriewer on Friday for your six-month checkup. You’re up to 12 pounds — which is almost three times what you weighed when you were born, but that’s still very small for a baby your age.

Dr. Schriewer said we shouldn’t be concerned, but she did recommend that we start feeding you some more fatty foods.

Like what? We asked.

Like butter, she said.

Butter? Like slather-it-all-over-your-french-toast, mash-it-into-your-potatoes, drizzle-it-all-over-your-lobster butter?

Yeah, she said. Butter.

She also said it would be good if we started giving you some fruits and vegetables. And so your mother promptly went out and bought every flavor of baby food at the store. This week we’re introducing you to sweet potatoes (the jury’s out) and next week we’ll try carrots. Meanwhile, Dr. Schriewer said we can also give you some zwieback toast (you love it already) and some formula in your rice cereal (you’re not such a fan.)

Over time, we’ll find out what you like best and, hopefully, put a few more pounds on you before your nine-month appointment.

Love,
dad

THE WHOLE BOWL

Dear Spike:

There’s plenty great about being an American.

Freedom. Democracy. The Bill of Rights. And so on an so forth. Yada yada yada.

You know what I like best about being an American?

The food.

Not the American food — although, truly, there is little better than a thick and juicy bacon cheeseburger or a hot and sloppy chili dog.

No, if there’s something wonderful about being the most multicultural nation in the history of the world, it’s the diversity and availability of food from every nook and cranny on the globe.

Salt Lake City is by no stretch of the imagination the food capital of this country, but within four blocks of our home we have access to Lebanese, Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Indian, Hawaiian, Italian, Brazilian and four or five different kinds of Mexican food. If you wanted, you could eat the regional food of a different country every single day for a month and never have to leave the city limits.

I’ve traveled around a bit. And yes, the tacos are better in Puerto Vallarta. The schnitzel is better in Saarbruken. The tapas are better in Madrid.

Actually, that last part is a lie. The tapas sucked in Madrid. I mean, really, anchovies and raisins on white bread? What the hell is that? True story: Your mother and I found it difficult to find food we liked in Spain. On the second night of our honeymoon, we went to a Spanish buffet that boasted 100 items on the menu. “Great,” I said. “We’ll find the items we like and we can order those for the rest of the trip.” Ninety-nine items later (neither of us were brave enough to try the sheep brains) we were still hungry. So the next day we decided to follow the locals. And they led us to McDonald’s.

But the gastronomic circle of hell that is the city of Madrid not withstanding, it stands to reason that if you’re looking for the best Italian food in the world, it might be best to go to Rome.

But if you’re looking for the second-best Italian food? Or the second best Cambodian food? Or the second best Greek food? And you want to find them all within a few minutes of one another? This is the place, my darling.

I’ve been thinking a lot about food because you had your very first meal of rice cereal today.

Dr. Schriewer told us that we would know when you were ready to eat when you started paying special interest to us when we were eating. We thought those instructions were a bit vague because you seem to pay close attention to everything we do.

But sure enough, just yesterday as we were eating dinner, you began watching every biteful of food that went from my fork to my mouth. A few minutes later, when you began making chewing movements with your mouth, we understood what Dr. Schriewer had meant.

So this morning we headed to the store to purchase some baby-sized spoons (we already had the box of rice cereal on hand — an impulse buy from a few weeks ago.) And this afternoon, with your great grandparents on hand as witnesses, your mother scooped up a little cereal and gave you your very first mouthful of something other than breast milk.

At first you squirmed and spit up — but then you really seemed to get the hang of it. We all took turns shoveling rice cereal into your adorable little mouth. You ate the whole bowl.

I really liked the determination I saw in you today. It was strange at first, but you stuck to it. And ultimately, I think, you got to liking it.

I hope that becomes a habit for you.

It’s amazing what diversity there is in what different groups of our species considers food. Some of us eat sheep brains, others consume ants. Some enjoy snails and others dine on pig intestines.

There are even groups of people who eat dirt. (The practice is called geophagy, not to be confused with geology, which is the study of dirt.)

I’ve chowed down on Guinea Pig, rattlesnake, muskrat, alligator and camel. I’ve eaten seaweed, dried squid and pickled bok choy.

I didn’t like all of it, but I’m glad I tried it.

You don’t have to try everything, but I’d encourage you to try as much as you can possibly bring your stomach to try. There’s a whole wide world out there — but, if you're willing, you won't have to go far to taste it.

Love,
dad

This video is also on YouTube.