I’m hungry!Then eat your fist.If you’re still hungry, you can eat your wrist.Then if you still want to eat,You can nibble one of your feetAnd keep the other for tomorrow’s treat! —Traditional French nursery rhyme By early March, we had reached a turning point. We had met my New Year’s resolution goal: the girls were eating ten new things: spinach, beet salad, ratatouille (thanks to our friend Laurence in Provence), salad with vinaigrette (thanks to Sandrine), vichyssoise (potato-leek soup), red peppers (even raw), broccoli (a real victory), tomatoes (ditto), tapenade (mostly Claire, who had developed a fiendish love of olives), and quiche (with a liberal dose of ratatouille in it, so maybe that didn’t quite count). At the gentle prompting of her papi, Sophie had even eaten a mussel. Even Philippe and I had gotten in on the act: we both had an aversion to cauliflower, and to the girls’ delight, it had been making a regular appearance on our parental plates—although liberally doused with a creamy béchamel sauce—for the past month.
What do You think about French Kids Eat Everything?
