Green Eggs and Dog Chow
Finicky eaters of the world, unite!

By Jeanne Marie Laskas
Sunday, April 23, 2006

I don't understand why he has to make such a production out of this. Eggs. The children have asked the father to cook them some eggs. He's got a bowl for the two he'll scramble, another to hold the two he'll flip over easy; the warmer drawer heating up two plates so that, presumably, the cooked eggs shall be experienced at their maximum taste potential. Now he's getting out the griddle, the one that goes over two burners. He can't use a stinkin' frying pan?

"Honey," I say. "It's eggs."

"You want some eggs, too?" he says with a small look of horror, as if I'm on the verge of seriously skewing some grand cuisine plan.

I tell him no. He tells me I'm in the way. He needs room, counter space, floor space; he has laid claim to the bulk of our kitchen real estate.

"For eggs?" I say.

"I care about the eggs," he says. "I care about our children. This is problematic for you?"

"I'm going to feed the dogs," I say.

Maybe a lot of couples share child-raising chores, performing daily tasks such as feeding and bathing and teeth brushing as a team while they whistle and sing. But in our house, it never works that way. We have different styles, different goals.

If I were making the eggs, I would crack, scramble, salt, plop. It would all be over by now. Of course, the children never ask me to make the eggs.

"Woo-hoo!" I shout, my special "come and get it!" dog call to our two hungry mutts. Actually, only one is a mutt. The other, Marley, is a standard poodle. You'd think he'd be the finicky one; poodles have that froufrou reputation for being the sort of animals that might secretly yearn for weekly manicures. But no. Marley will kill himself a groundhog for lunch. Betty, the mutt, has a misshapen esophagus, and the vet says that's why she's so finicky. He says I should put her food bowl on a little stool so she won't have to bend over so far to get to it and the food won't have to fight gravity going down.

Okay, now the father is asking the children what color eggs they want. "Green, orange or blue?" he asks. "Remember, I have a hard time getting a good blue." Long ago he started adding food coloring to eggs, just for fun. It might have been a Dr. Seuss thing, I don't know. Ever since, the children have come to expect it. I have expressed concern. I think you can make food too entertaining. You can create children who won't just wolf down the good healthy classics you put before them if you make everything special and exciting.

"Green!" says the easy child. "Blue!" says the more demanding child. "With streaks!"

Holy cholesterol. At times like these I feel so alone.

"Come here, girly-girl," I say to Betty, whose head is drooping low. This is what always happens. This is because I am holding the stainless steel dog bowls. Dogs don't know a lot, but dogs know that dog bowls are for dog food. Betty is not the dog-food type. I used to think it was the esophagus issue, or maybe a matter of taste or texture. But I've since learned differently.

"I hate this spatula!" the father says. He's trying to turn the over-easy eggs, both at the same time. He says he's going out later today to buy a bigger spatula. "This is ridiculous! I can't work this way!" The egg turning is always so stressful.

"Why don't you just turn one egg at a time?" I ask.

He looks at me. "Are you making the eggs, or am I making the eggs?"

Dog food. I am happy to do dog food. I want nothing to do with the eggs. I get a scoop of dry for Marley, add a few tablespoons of wet for flavor, plus a squirt of liquid vitamin. I put the food on the floor, and he digs in. I make the same mixture for Betty, adding her two herbal arthritis medications, plus a piece of Kraft American Singles cheese to disguise the truth of dog food. I stir. She watches with dread. Then I get out a dinner plate. Fiestaware, turquoise blue. Her ears perk up. A people plate! She's getting people food!

No, she's not. But the sight of the plate makes her think she is, and that is all that matters. For years I had to coax and coax her to eat, but then I learned: It's all about the plate.

"Madam, your meal is ready," I say to Betty, placing the turquoise plate on her little esophageally correct feeding stool. The father with the eggs throws me a glance. "Pretty soon you'll bring out the Lenox china for that dog."

"She would love that," I say.

"Watch out, girls, these plates are hot," he says, presenting the eggs, green and blue-streaked, both plates featuring toast points set in a star formation.

"I can't believe you," I say.

"I can't believe you," he says.

And this is only breakfast.

Jeanne Marie Laskas's e-mail address is post@jmlaskas.com.