Food is, like, kind of a total big deal in our house. You know, the male protagonist in this story is named Mr. Chef, so.
We like to eat good food, we like our kid to eat good food, and sometimes I'm tempted to write in gloating and somewhat pedantic tones about how my kid will eat anything, and that is obviously down to my masterly parenting moves. But, first of all that would be kind of a dick move, and second, I fear the wrath of the internet.
Still. Food. Big deal. Also, kind of bonkers. Because, you see, a third-culture-kid has some really unorthodox ideas of normative foodways.
Stella's hands down, number one favourite breakfast dish, for example? Noodle soup with basko (meatballs), bok choi, bean sprouts and tofu. Extra kecap manis, and a little sambal. So. Okay.
At two-and-three-quarters, my kid's got a decent grip on chopsticks, but knife and fork, nope. Can not.
She'll gladly wolf down tofu and tempeh, but present this kid with a peanut butter and jam sandwich and it's all, NOOOOO! I DONT WIKE BUTDER! Mama, can I eat your salad? Huh?
70% dark chocolate, down the hatch. Tabasco? No problem. Sashimi will be eaten. But give this child a bowl of cheerios, and she'll act like it's poison.
And when cooking at her stove, which is like 80 percent of the time, she's always whipping up a batch of nasi goreng pizza. Because fusion? I dunno.
Stella's apron c/o Arty Apple.