The Cupcake Lunch

My kids are picky eaters.

The Kindergartner particularly.

And by 'picky' I mean he would choose starvation over allowing his tongue to touch a crumb of something that may disagre with his sensitive palate.

He has been known to throw up a floret of broccoli.

He spent 10 days with us in a foreign country surviving only on cheerios.

He has eaten an everything bagel with cream cheese for lunch everyday for the past, oh, 4 years.

I know it's partially my fault, which is why I often feel that beastly mothering guilt smack me upside the head, and I attempt (again) to get him to try something new (oh, if I had a dime for every time I uttered that phrase).

Unfortunately, Picky Eating Syndrome (PES) runs in my family.

I am sure that if I had undergone genetic testing during my pregnancies the specialists would have warned me, that, yes, I do in fact carry the PES gene.

Scientists are working on a cure, but so far, nothing.

In her own effort to combat PES my mother invented The Cupcake Lunch when we were kids.

[I have no idea if the cupcake lunch initiative was actually her invention or not, but I like to think that it was so if you know otherwise kindly keep it to yourself thankyouverymuch]

The Cupcake Lunch consists of a muffin tin filled with small amounts (this is key: small amounts) of food placed deceivingly lovingly in each compartment. It's all about presentation. The more fun it looks, the less nutritious a kid thinks it is. Smoke and mirrors, people.

I imagine my mom saved these special treats for particularly trying days. Searching for something to feed her picky, crumb-crunching children who, not unlike my own children, survived on toast with butter, noodles with butter, eggnog shakes (my mom's other invention) and the occasional trip to Dairy Queen.

There was only one Cupcake Lunch Rule: the recipient must eat one item out of each muffin compartment. Spitting food into a napkin or feeding it to the dog was not allowed.

We followed The Cupcake Lunch Rule religiously (perhaps a poor choice of words since we were not exactly church-goers, except once in 1977 when we were dragged out of the house one Sunday morning because my mother decided we needed some religion in our lives, to which we all said, "huh?").

Anyway, we never broke The Cupcake Lunch Rule.

We were suckers.

My mother filled our cupcake lunches with a dollop of ice cream, a scattering of chocolate chips, tiny slices of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, grapes, bananas, and perhaps if she was feeling confident in our appetites that day, a few carrot sticks or celery smothered in cream cheese.

It worked.

We ate.

Mom won.


A few weeks ago when I felt that all too familiar smack in the head (damn you, mothering Guilt), I remembered the magic of the almighty Cupcake Lunch.

Why did I not think of this before now?

I did my best to replicate my childhood lunch treats as enthusiastically as I could muster without revealing my desperation (PLEASE. FOR. THE. LOVE. OF. GOD. EAT.)

Oh, they were beside themselves with giddiness. Never had the anticipation of a meal resulted in so much excitement.

I explained The Cupcake Lunch Rule.

Yes! They nodded their heads in agreement. "We Will Try Everything!"

"Yes! We Can!".

We sang!

We danced a Cupcake Lunch jig!

We rejoiced in the hope and promise of The Cupcake Lunch!

I presented the carefully crafted Cupcake Lunch extravaganza, complete with dollops of applesauce, tiny peanut butter sandwiches, wedges of bagel cream cheese sandwiches, grapes, yogurt covered raisins, and, because I was feeling extra confident in their appetites, a few carrot sticks.

Oh, the anticipation! The excitement! The novelty of it all!


I don't think I need to tell you what happened next.

For the first time in Cupcake Lunch family history, The Cupcake Lunch Rule was broken.

But they did enjoy the chocolate chips.