Toddler Cuisine

He’s lukewarm on pizza, of all things, but he’ll eat a can of black olives like popcorn. While his siblings look on in horror, Andy will shovel down mushrooms, salmon, tofu, green peppers, tomatoes, broccoli, spinach and even anchovies. He’ll chew the shell off a hard-boiled egg, nibble Kleenex like cotton candy and sees the floor as a potential smorgasbord of culinary treats, questing for hardened mac-and-cheese detritus like a boar seeking truffles.

Unlike his older brothers and sisters, our 21-month-old hasn’t constructed a personal menu of forbidden foods based on arbitrary factors like “it looks gross” or “it smells funny.” He doesn’t care if feta cheese is redolent of unwashed feet or the eggplant looks like something in utero; if it tastes good, he’ll stick it in his maw and give it a chew. Once he’s old enough to understand it, his siblings will tell him what he should hate and how he needs to be on their side, not ours. Until then, though, he’s a consummate gourmand, a game trouper who’d probably eat haggis and blutwurst if I knew how to make it.

Like Cookie Monster, only half of the food set in front of him makes it down his gullet, while the other half is mashed into the carpet. We tried putting one of those “splat mats” down, but his range has gotten too great. I wanted to try one of those “Queen Anne” collars, like you put on dogs when they’re not supposed to lick their incisions, but my wife put the kibosh on that. I saw it as a great solution, where we could just toss the food into a sort of hopper around his mouth, then remove it when he was done. No muss, no fuss. No way. OK.

Parenting magazines, including this one, are full of stories and tips about how to eat out with a toddler and have a swell time. These writers haven’t met Andy. The last time we attempted dining out with Andy, I spent half the evening in the front of the restaurant with the people waiting for a table, and the other half apologizing to the waitstaff, who stopped by with spare napkins, then a washcloth, then a mop and, finally, a leaf-blower and a firehose. The tip cost more than the meal, but the manager made up for it with a cash gift for promising never to return.

My ideal family restaurant would have a toddler room with floor-to-ceiling padding that can be hosed down at intervals. The kid goes in with just a diaper; Mom or Dad are given a disposable paper gown. Press one lever, Mac & Cheese shoots out onto the floor; press another, meatballs fall from the ceiling. A hose in the corner emits chocolate milk like a spring, while tendrils of linguini hang from the doorway and loaves of garlic bread can be worn on the feet — like clogs — before consumption.

I know, I know: How will we ever get kids to eat like humans if we turn them loose like billy goats during these formative years? I didn’t say it was a perfect plan, but I do look forward to the day when I can eat my own meal in peace, undisturbed by those tiny hands that jam themselves into my mashed potatoes to create some kind of spudly terra cotta design.

He’ll stop doing that by the time college rolls around, right?