Over a week ago I received a surprise package in the mail. Enclosed was this card with its lovely sentiment: "Nobody minds having what is too good for them."
The tides are turning in my favour these days. I don't mind, exactly, but I do wonder sometimes when they might turn the other way, not that I think I don't deserve good things but because they seem to be governed by forces beyond my control.
In that package was a book qualifying as good for me. Whining and Dining: Mealtime Survival for Picky Eaters and the Families Who Love Them strikes me as a pretty smart and basic resource; with over 100 easy recipes (Martian soup!), it includes recipe substitutions, general tips for enticing kids to eat what's good for them, and helpful not-always-as-obvious-as-you'd-think-it-should-be advice like pour out the kid's portion before you add spoonfuls of grated ginger for the benefit of flavour-adventurous adults. I even tried a recipe for some cheese-poofy things last week and met with relative success. Ironically, the girl is pretty easy to "cook" for — she's never met a fresh vegetable she didn't like (excepting those days one just doesn't feel like having green peppers); if anyone's a picky eater here, it's J-F (but don't tell him I said so).
So, no, I don't mind having what's good for me. And books are good for me. I'm developing a taste for receiving review copies. It's a sad day when I tuck into bed sighing, "I didn't get any free books today," but I haven't had a sad day this week:
So far as I can tell, they're all excellent. Work first, reward (read: reading frenzy) soon. Already Ondaatje's Divisadero is serving as an occasional langourous respite.
Nothing's too good for me.