The Grown-Up’s Case for Kid Food
How becoming a parent opened my eyes to the delights of chicken tenders and pizza bagels
When I stopped being a kid, I stopped eating kid food. I went 20 years without eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. If I made myself a grilled cheese during that span, I don’t remember it. Quesadillas were only ever someone else’s order at a bar; ditto chicken tenders. Hot dogs were strictly experiential: for baseball games, or outings to Coney Island, or giving up.
As I exited the impoverished ramen-powered stage of adulthood and entered what felt like a stable career, my social life began to rotate around food: Dates at trendy restaurants, sunny afternoons tracking down food trucks, potluck dinner parties where the hosts inevitably had the same slate cheese plate. Food was both transcendent and everywhere, destination and experience, centerpiece and backdrop to new memories.
Then I had kids. The things that were most enjoyable before I was a father — eating in restaurants, traveling to far-off places, drinking with friends late into the night — suddenly became the biggest pain in the ass imaginable. Sure, my children have brought me joy and emotional fulfillment, but at what cost?
In any given week, I’m a garbage disposal for half-eaten PBJs, grilled cheeses…
