Noah officially got his acceptance letter to Loyola today. The one is Chicago. Where it’s cold.
Tonight at supper, he said: “Mom, I wish I could wake up every morning and eat your cooking. You don’t know how good a cook you are.”
And the first thing I thought of was, “Boy, you’re going to wake up and eat a lot of Ramen and Pop Tarts for the next four years.” And that made me sad.
But on the bright side, Noah’s come a long way where food’s concerned. Here he is at age seven, watching cartoons in the kitchen. He is eating Goldfish, at one time the main component of his diet. I remember reading some place that children will naturally navigate toward healthy food and not to worry if they go overboard in one area or another along the way. There was a long stretch where I worried about that. Aside from Goldfish, he had his mini-ravioli period. The kind that’s fresh in the refrigerator case. He ate mini-ravioli for about two years, just boiled and coated with butter. Finally, the manufacturer stopped making them. Noah was so incensed that he made me contact the manager at the Publix to see if they could restock them. Fortunately, they could not.
Somewhere around age 13, Noah started making the turn toward not only healthier, but more adventurous food. He went through his banana phase, his apple phase and then he hurdled head long into Thai, Indian and Japanese cuisine.
So tonight I watched him as he wolfed down roasted cauliflower. And I wondered what will happen to him when he’s in a dorm room at Loyola with only a microwave as a cooking implement and a McDonald’s just down the street. I know he’ll survive. Heck, I lived on macaroni and cheese cooked in a popcorn maker for three years when I was in college.
But I know that on more than on occasion I will want to hop on a plane, head to whatever grocery store they have in Chicago, and show up to cook him a real meal. Withdrawal.