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As a chef, I was curious as to what the hell companies actually put into all those tiny jars, cups, and pouches. As a new father, I felt like it was my duty. I mean, why not eat baby food? If I wouldnt eat it, why would I feed it to my son?
Most of the pre-made meat blends, as you would expect, contained weird ingredients and tasted bland. (Even in the darkest of times, Id avoid shelf-stable turkey breast liquefied with water and thickened with corn starch.)
Many of the pureed fruit and vegetable pouches were . . . pretty good, but they seemed pricey for what they were. I could do better. Im a chef , after all, and as a new dad who previously felt like I was nothing more than a house butler, I thought Id at least promote my role in the family to head cook.
When Hugo was three months old, I served him his first meal that I had made: some avocado pureed with breast milk. (I did not taste this.)
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I have a video of him taking that first bite. As his mouth closed around the spoon, his face did whatever the baby version of What the fuck is this? is and then he looked at me.
Ive seen this look beforeon customers who are tasting the wonder of real kimchi for the first time or experiencing the newfound joy of popping a baby octopus between their teeth. Its the look of realizing that theres more to life than breast milk. (Metaphorically.)
In the months that followed, I pureed spinach, green peas, and bok choy with formula. I pureed yellow bell peppers, yellow squash, and corn with formula. Pureed carrots. Pureed potatoes. Pureed tomatoes. My blender nearly quit. Hugos diet expanded to include chicken, salmon, oatmeal, and even a little fish sauce, because I cant help myself.
Despite most of this stuff looking like gruel, Hugos appreciation for eating grew and, with it, my intensity in cooking for him. My son is the most demanding, most important guest Ive ever cooked for.
I wake up at 6:00 in the morning on Sunday to prep his meals for the week, in the light of our kitchen stove, a big pot of something simmering on it.
I sit by his high chair, peeling the membrane off his clementine oranges. I now know that if Hugo doesnt want to eat, its not always the food, but maybe too many people are in the room, hes distracted by a toy, or the sunlight is too bright for his liking.
To me, feeding Hugo is like playing throw-and-catch before we can play throw-and- catch. This is how he and I commune. Early in fatherhood I kept asking myself, What is it, exactly, that dads do? Now I have not only something to do, but something to do with him.
Thats rewardingespecially when he lets me share a bite of his gruel.