A Foodie Regresses

Before pregnancy, I was what was known as a foodie. My olives came whole from Spain with fresh herbs, not pitted from a can. My breads were whole grain, hand fashioned, and crusty. I refused to eat beef cooked beyond à point (medium rare), and I could identify which fishes could not be eaten due to overfishing and the effect on the environment. I own and use parchment paper, Silpat silicone baking sheets, and Wusthof Trident knives, which I keep well-sharpened. I could identify and expound on the differences between a pinot noir, cabernet, merlot, gamay, and zinfandel (and NEVER the pink stuff). I grew 14 different herbs outside my door, and I was more likely to have canned artichoke hearts than canned corn in my pantry.

Then, baby. And morning all-the-time sickness.

And so? I find myself regressing. Yes, I admit it. All this baby seems to want is the food I ate as a child.

Which means, rather than chicken à la dijonnaise, Zizou wants chicken strips.

With ketchup.

Rather than steel-cut oats with natural yogurt and real Canadian maple syrup, Zizou wants cereal.

Lucky Charms, to be precise.

And rather than Pesto pasta with fresh tomatoes, pine nuts, parmigiano reggiano and prosciutto?

Zizou wants Hotdish.

The North Dakota Lutheran girls who read this will know exactly what I mean, and are probably cringing with embarrassment. I know I was, when I had to ask Dr. B to make it for me. But, hotdish is one of the few things that always stayed down, and was a fairly well-balanced dinner in itself. Plus, it was easy enough for the former-novice in the kitchen (Dr. B) to attempt by himself. (Note: his breakfasts are unbeatable, but he usually avoids cooking after noon.)

Hotdish is the ultimate one-dish meal for a Norski from Fargo. For those who don't know, Hotdish is what those in the "snooty" states would call a casserole. But in North Dakota and Minnesota, we call it hotdish, because we're not snobby like that. Hmpf.

Dr. B started with his favorite, "Red Hotdish" (named so because it's, um, red.) Macaroni noodles, cooked way past al dente, mixed with hamburger meat browned with onion and tomatoes and tomato sauce, baked until bubbly. We then followed that with Tuna Noodle Hotdish, my personal favorite (I even like it cold for breakfast the next day), with the same noodles (mushy, please!), tuna, cream of mushroom soup (Dr. B buys organic) and milk, parmesan cheese, peas and crushed potato chips on the top. Mmmmmm...

I asked for "Yellow Hotdish" (the noodles or sliced potatoes, hamburger/onion, corn, cream of mushroom), but was denied. I didn't even attempt "Tator Tot Hotdish" or "Hamburger/Minute Rice Hotdish", which I knew would both get a resounding "NO!"

As my pregnancy has progressed, the nausea has backed off a bit, and I'll have weeks now when I can eat pretty much anything. But, I still find myself wanting those foods which remind me of home, of being a little kid, of meals cooked by my mom, always on the table at 6:30, served with carrot sticks, pickles, buttered white bread and a cold glass of Kool-Aid.

Maybe this is Mom's way of letting me know she's watching, and helping to take care of her first little grandchild.

With some good, hearty hotdish for supper. Just like she always took care of me.