If you like food, I probably like you. If I love you, I will feed you. It’s as simple and as complicated as all that. I’ve never understood people who didn’t care as much about this as I do. What else is there if you can’t talk about what to eat next while you’re eating something great? Nothing, there’s nothing better.

When my husband and I were dating, he wooed me with kindness, and I wooed him with homemade mac and cheese. When we had children, I assumed they would share our passion for all things edible, and I dreamed of teaching them about the world through various cuisines. I couldn’t wait to cook for my own family, as my grandmother did, as my parents did.

After my first son was born, I'd say cringe-worthy things like, "I'm developing his palate," while pureeing roasted sweet potatoes or making homemade applesauce, organic, of course, which he ate with toothless glee from smeary piles on the tray of his high chair. He was curious about what his parents were eating and tried everything from asparagus to zucchini fritters with gusto.

We were clearly killing this parenting thing, food-wise.

Because the universe always puts you in your place, when we welcomed a second child, we knew we were facing a challenge.

From the start, he simply refused to eat almost anything. His preferred selections were shades of brown and white: Fish sticks, graham crackers, cheese sticks.

Most evenings we eat dinner together as a family, and it goes something like this: A plate of food is placed in front of the youngest child who is sitting at the table, poised and ready to dislike whatever I have chosen to serve him.

"NOOOOOOO!" he wails. "I DON'T LIKE THIIIIIIS!" He points accusingly at a solo blueberry, which is harmlessly rolling around his plate next to a pile of meatballs. His face is twisted with fear and revulsion as if the fruit is a live scorpion, ready to strike.

We all act like nothing is happening as he writhes in revulsion.

My husband coaxes the howling child with ‘kitty bites’ of meatballs, but the toxic berry is RUINING THE WHOLE PLATE. Finally, Dad pops the offending item into his own mouth and says the words we seem to say frequently at the table: "There, it's gone. Happy now? Please just eat.”

Satisfied with the results of this negotiation, my son settles down and eats most of his meatballs, keeps his napkin on his lap, drinks his milk, and asks to be excused, please.

As he and his brother take their plates to the kitchen, I rest my head in my hands in defeat. Have I caused this dysfunction at the dinner table?

But then it dawns on me. I’m not upset that my son doesn’t want to eat what I made for him – I mean, there is that – but it’s something else.

I have always had my doubts about people who don’t like to eat. Is my son one of those people? Someone who eats the same, monotonous thing every day, for his whole life and doesn’t think twice about it? Who never takes risks, never tries anything new, ever? Someone who eats McDonald’s in France?

I think back to dinnertime as a child when my brother's diet consisted almost solely on plain iceberg lettuce, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and American cheese. It wasn’t until he was a teenager that he woke up to the magic of food, and he hasn't looked back since. Now he’s a healthy adult who loves oysters and hot peppers, has traveled internationally, and tried every local specialty. He’s curious and loving and friendly and generous. It just took him some time, but he got there. His limited childhood menu didn’t seem to stunt his growth in any way.

Maybe there's hope for my picky eater, after all.

I hear the boys playing in the living room as I take my plate to the kitchen. Both are healthy and active, despite their different eating habits.

Someday my sons will understand that what I most wanted to give them around the dining room table wasn’t simply the food that I cooked. I want them to learn to try things so they can discover the world. Every taste, every experience.

Both of my boys have their Dad's smile, my eyes, and unique personalities. So far, I see no sign that either of my kids lack energy or curiosity.

Maybe they also have my appetite for food and for life.

This essay originally appeared in Fete Lifestyle Magazine in November 2019.