"Pickled canary feet and curried salamander tongues," I laugh, with my own tongue in my cheek.
"Why did you tell him that?" his visiting grandmother asks.
"Because, if I tell him what's really in it, he's not going to eat it."
"Well, what is in it?
"Just plain old peas and carrots and onions. But Mikey made it clear back in his Gerber days that no one was ever going to accuse him of being a vegetarian."
"I take it he's a meat and potatoes man?"
"Well, not exactly. Unless they come French-fried, he usually includes potatoes in his ban on eating anything that grows in a garden. And, as for meat, he's pretty selective. If his protein sources don't come dripping in ketchup and mayo on a toasted sesame street bun, you might as well forget about them going down that kid's hatch."
“Doesn't he like anything besides what you can buy under the "golden arches?”
"Oh, sure! Michael's really keen on fast foods like Pop Tarts, pepperoni pizza, and corn dogs."
"Sounds like you've got a picky eater on your hands."
"Not always. Every once in a while he comes to the table and picks out a healthy morsel or two."
"How often is every once in a while?"
"Just often enough to sustain life between his junk food binges."
"Well, if I were you," my concerned mother-in-law advises, "I'd put my foot down on such shenanigans and make that boy eat some balanced meals."
"Oh, I’ve already tried that, but with Michael's frenzied lifestyle, I'm afraid insisting on balanced meals hasn't had much of a nutritional impact."
"Frenzied lifestyle? You mean he's always eating on the run?'
"No. Just on his bicycle. And that's another story. Mike's idea of a balanced meal is anything he can hold in one hand, while steering his bike with the other."
