A cube of bright, orange, Jell-o sits on my son’s high chair.
We are at a Chinese Food Buffet in Hazel Dell, WA. The restaurant is located where the Holland used to be. When we were young, my family would visit the Holland for their cheap kid’s menu and open salad bar. My siblings and I would always order the same thing: A corn dog and fries. Then we would load up at the salad bar–dining on such delicacies as black olives, sunflower seeds, unlimited blue cheese dressing, and all the iceberg lettuce we could handle! For years my sister piled her plate high with pickled beets and nothing else. Every spring, the Holland featured an enormous strawberry shortcake bar–which was so visually exciting, with its whip cream peaks and valleys, that we could barely make it through our corn dogs. The worst stomach ache I’ve ever had from overeating was after a particular stint at the shortcake bar.
Now the Holland and all its memories have been replaced by a vast and efficiently run Chinese buffet. Row after row of hot plates filled with Chinese (and not so Chinese) favorites: sweet and sour chicken, stir-fried rice, sesame balls filled with bean paste, and yes, the required fried section of various deep-fat fried meats (and even bananas!). For my little son (I actually just typed ’sun’) I find apricots swimming in syrup and banana dusted with chocolate pudding. I clean up the food, smash it with my fork and place it on his tray. He chases it around with his fists, then pats it flat with his palms, his fine motor skills not accomplished enough to grip the food. I give him a spoon and he shoves it into his mouth. Pieces of banana are on his fingers–which are constantly in his mouth.
I am lucky: My kid is pretty thrilled to be in a restaurant. A natural observer, he carefully mixes people watching with sucking the nose of his beloved ‘little red bird.’ This stuffed toy only travels in the car with him. It’s a special toy. One that even has its own song, a sort of ‘getting into the carseat’ ritual I created when the kid was still shy of car trips. Little Red has accompanied us into many lunch outings. My boy promptly spits up all over his stuffed toy and the love affair is over. We move on to his music box and then, when he tires of that toy, move on to food.
I’m trying to devour as much of the buffet as I can and still keep my baby entertained. Through bites of fresh spring roll I hoist mashed bananas into his mouth. I break up the apricots and place them near his hands for grabbing. I put a chunk of banana on his tray in the hopes that he’ll enjoy chasing it around. The food is ground into his hands, sticky and unrewarding. This promptly leads to frustration. Then my father places a beautiful square piece of orange Jell-o on his tray. I’m sure this goes against all the rules; Jell-o is sugar, artificial, and not really defined as a true food. But my son promptly squishes the Jell-o cube with his fists and it looks like a lot of fun. Pieces of Jell-o are everywhere, a rewarding mess. Food! Food as fun, food as a toy, food as exploration.
I enjoy buffets. My in-laws are all squeamish about buffets which has rubbed off a bit on my husband. Their sense of sanitation and cleanliness is too high for complete comfort when it comes to openly helping yourself to a buffet. Sneeze guards don’t give them the false sense of security that I have. I realize that many people are handling the serving spoons one after the other as we all dive in for second helpings of sweet and sour chicken. Therefore, I wash my hands. The people at the restaurant are mostly blue collar workers of the ‘good ole’ boy’ variety on lunch break. They heap large piles of fried pot stickers, egg rolls, and mandarin chicken onto their balls if fried rice. Clusters of cream puffs disappear in droves.
My son is relishing his introduction to solid food. An avid eater, I have yet to give him anything he hasn’t devoured. From applesauce to peas, he hasn’t turned down a thing. Thankfully, he sits in his special high chair at the buffet and watches, pats, plays, sucks on Little Red Bird, and pounds the crap out of orange Jell-o. But his enjoyment gives way to fatigue, and soon we are making our way out the door. While driving home, I realize the old Holland location still houses the charm and excitement of all the salad once I could eat. Only now it’s been replaced with rice, tea, cream puffs…and a baby whose introduction to culinary joy has only just begun.