I wish everything was served on a toothpick. I'm the best guest at an appetizer party--hot, cold, passed, served. If it's small and bite sized, I'll give it a whirl. And I'm increasingly amazed at what people can stab onto a small stick and serve at a party. I remain duly impressed.
When my children were small, I wasn't very good at fighting the food wars, and chose instead to pretend that my kitchen was Sam's Club, and that I was the sample lady. "Cheese cube?" I would ask. I presented the orange cubes on an Elmo plate with a small heap of pretzel sticks. Not only was it a great game (stick the cube on the pretzel) but it was a perfect snack, and a cute appetizer. Toothpick, pretzel-- it's all the same to me. For years, I served chunks of pears, peaches, veggies, and bananas all with tiny pretzel toothpicks. It was a party on the highchair tray at every meal. (Note: Cheerios and pretzels is like ring-toss, and it's super-duper fun!)
Yesterday, I noticed that a large box of frozen chicken sandwiches was still in the freezer, untouched. I had purchased them thinking they would serve the purpose of a good, quick snack between summer camp, theater, and baseball games, but since they were unfamiliar, no one had tried them. *GASP! NEW FOOD ITEM! THE CHILDREN ARE INCREDIBLY FRIGHTENED* So, as I was cleaning the kitchen and doing the laundry, I heated up two sandwiches, cut them into sixteen small wedges, and grabbed my trusty toothpicks. I put the "appetizer" onto a white plate on the counter, and ignored it.
"What is this?" my youngest is intrigued.
"Nothing," I said, turning away and boiling water for pasta.
The sandwiches had been in the freezer for weeks, taking up space. I had actually offered them up a few times, and was shot down on the basis of "never having had them before." That's right. You will live the rest of your life eating only things you have had before. Enjoy your long life filled with waffles, pasta, pizza, Gatorade and cereal.
"I just thought you guys might like a snack," I said, "but dinner will be ready soon." My mom-voice implies: WHATEVER YOU DO, DO NOT EAT THOSE BEAUTIFUL MINI SANDWICHES.
I would not look my children directly in the eye. I would not ask them to try a bite. From the pantry, though, I could see them walking past, grabbing the bites of sandwich. Like their mother, they cannot resist a tiny taste on a fancy plate.
"Those are pretty good, Mom," said my oldest.
"I'm so glad," I answer. "Don't ruin your dinner."
My daughter grabbed another on her way through the kitchen. "Not too many!" I call. In a few days I will tell them that they can have a whole sandwich anytime they like. But not yet. I am wielding a private sense of power with my secret chicken hors d'oeuvres.
I wonder what else we might try if it was offered in fancy packaging and in the least overwhelming serving?
It reminds me of when my girlfriends took me skiing for the first time. I was convinced mostly by my fancy new skis (toothpicks?) and the idea that it was only a six-week course (appetizer?)
And as I grab a mini-chicken sandwich wedge (obviously) I promise myself to be open to the samples that are being handed to me on platters every single day. It just can't hurt to try.
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