Vacation in Bizarro World: Dinnertime

Matt's poolside hangout.

Matt's poolside hangout.

While I took great pleasure in tweaking Theodore yesterday for being snowed in in New York, it’s worth mentioning that not all is 24/7 hunky-dory here in the Vacationland of Palm Springs, California. To begin with, I seem to have pulled a muscle in my back, and am popping ibuprofren like candy. (As soon as we get back to our rented house in L.A., I’m raiding the vicodin I saw in our hosts’ medicine cabinet.) The most frustrating part of the pain is not being able to carry Sasha—it’s one of those tortures sometimes inflicted on parents, where for various reasons (injury, illness, restraining orders) we just can’t go near our children.

Of course, the way Sasha’s been behaving, I haven’t particularly wanted to be near her. To put it briefly, Sasha is no Nico. Feeding her is becoming a nightmare, with seemingly surefire foods like rice, noodles, and ground beef rejected outright with a definitive “No!” or, simultanteously worse and cleverer, “Bu yao!” This wouldn’t be so bad except that here in Palm Springs, we’re staying at a hotel and have to rely on restaurants to feed us. Last night, we were at one of those huge, terrible Mexican places that are perfect for kids: They really can’t do anything there to offend anyone, because no one there has any high expectations for the meal.

What’s amazing is how Sasha’s naysaying works. Lately, she will refuse everything on the table—everything except for the thing we think she’s least likely to want. Last night, that meant turning up her nose at rice, beans, tortillas, guacamole, and who knows what else before, in a beery moment of “what if?,” I put a forkful of carnitas in her face. And she ate it. And ate more and more and more.

So, great, carnitas. Except… it was really bad carnitas. Chunky and dry and flavorless. Even I was just kind of pushing it around my plate. So, while I’m glad she ate something, I’m also disappointed in her palate. Oh well, you can’t have everything. Or anything. Frankly, if my back didn’t hurt so bad I probably wouldn’t care.

Oh well, guess it’s back to the pool, the hot tub, and the acres of nubile rock chicks. It isn’t much, but it makes me feel a little tiny bit better.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized by Matt. Bookmark the permalink.

About Matt

Matt Gross writes about travel and food for the New York Times, Saveur, Gourmet, and Afar, where he is a Contributing Writer. When he’s not on the road, he’s with his wife, Jean, and daughter, Sasha, in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *