T A B L E_ T A L K

To cut or not to cut: Join the debate over whether to circumsize in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Something to declare
By Dwight Garner
Novelist Julia Alvarez has something to declare
(09/25/98)

Recipes make the woman
By Sallie Tisdale
Betty Crocker was a model woman and other kitchen myths
(09/24/98)

Conception by deception
By Tracy Quan
Why do women get away with "accidentally" getting pregnant -- when if a man tried to pull the same manipulative stunt, he'd be Bobbitted?
(09/23/98)

First Pick by proxy
By Carol Snow
A toddler fulfills her mother's gym class dreams
(09/22/98)

Time For One Thing: Fly-Fishing
By Karen Laws
Rollin' on the river with Dad
(09/21/98)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

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BY DANNY MILLER | Am I guilty of child abuse if I give my 4-year-old daughter a hot dog for dinner? Will a SWAT team burst through my door if I unwrap a slice of processed American cheese or drop a Pop Tart into the toaster? Being a responsible single parent can be a daunting task when it comes to nutrition. I try to provide well-balanced meals for Leah, but after a long day at the office, I hardly have the energy to bake my own whole-grain bread, steam all-natural basmati rice or prepare a turkey casserole. And it's not like I have a history of eating wholesome, farm-fresh meals every night myself. In fact, I'd say that most of my neuroses concerning my daughter's digestive fare can be traced directly to the sugary, synthetic, freeze-dried foods that graced my own childhood plate.

Don't get me wrong. My mother was a caring, loving person. She just wasn't an expert on the nutritional value of the food she served. Her main concern was that I ate everything on my plate: "You mustn't waste," my mother railed on a daily basis. "Don't you know there are starving children in Europe?" My mother's focus on the children of Europe said more about her background than it did about the current patterns of world famine. While I don't doubt that there were starving children in Europe during the 1960s, as there probably were just a few miles from our Chicago home, global attention had long since shifted from the ravages of postwar Europe to third world trouble spots. While other parents admonished their children with the latest statistics from Ethiopia, the Sudan, Vietnam and Bangladesh, my World War II-raised mother, unable to break free from her own mother's constant admonitions, was forever locked into her own Marshall Plan of European recovery.

As I struggled to lick my plate clean, I tried to imagine how eating every morsel of my Swanson TV Dinner was going to help the wide-eyed orphans in the bombed-out ruins of Rotterdam or Berlin. When I got fed up with this guilt trip, I offered to pack up the remains of my Salisbury steak, freeze-dried vegetables and burned-at-the-edges brownie and ship them off to the Continent. There was only one problem with my plan: I'm sure that the nuclear waste that passed for American cuisine in the 1960s would have been rejected by officials of the World Health Organization.

I suspect that my short stature and premature baldness came not from genetics but from the steady diet of manufactured, chemical rich, artificial foods I consumed as a child. This is what prompts me to feed Leah nutritious, all-natural foods whenever I can. Not that I hold a grudge against my mother for her skewed view of nutrition. The new prefab goodies she fed us were designed to free American women from the drudgery of the kitchen and add quality time to family life. My mother yearned for culinary freedom. As consumer dependency shifted from the farmland to the factory, we all felt lucky and proud to be citizens of the ultra-modern United States. Our foods reflected the hopeful wonder of American technology. Why spend countless hours preparing the boring meals of our grandparents' generation when you could simply grab a box, open a can, break a plastic seal or pull back a foil lining?

My day began with breakfast cereals that boasted a staggering array of artificial colors, flavors and preservatives. Cocoa Puffs, Sugar Pops, Cap'n Crunch. My favorite was Trix -- tiny spheres of crunchy Day-Glo sugar that sent spirals of fluorescent colors strafing across my bowl of milk. I also liked Lucky Charms, which featured mini-marshmallows in leprechaun-inspired shapes. I foraged past the bland cereal bits to find the yummy hearts, moons and clovers in a spectrum of hues that never existed on God's rainbow.

Lunchtime foods sprang forth from a stock of canned goods that was big enough to outlast the Cold War. Our luncheon menu might include Spaghettios ("the neat new spaghetti you can eat with a spoon!"), Chef Boy-Ar-Dee mini-raviolis, Goober's peanut butter and jelly swirled together in the same jar or the glorious marshmallow fluff, a pristine white concoction of sugar and air that was made into heavenly "fluffernutter" sandwiches. When she had a little extra time, my mother prepared comforting Kraft Macaroni 'n' Cheese. As she mixed the powdered topping with milk, it was magically transformed into a cheesy goo guaranteed to stay in the colon until Nixon's resignation. All of these treats were washed down with refreshing sugary beverages such as grape Kool-Aid, strawberry Fizzies, Tang, Fresca or chocolate-flavored Yoo-Hoo.

N E X T_ P A G E: Offerings at the brand-name altar