West End Boy
We like to call our neighbourhood ‘Bloorcourt’ when we’re feeling fancy.
And when we aren’t we call it ‘Parkdale North’ because that’s where people who can’t afford to rent ‘downtown’ live. You know, people like us. We don’t have a nice house — we don’t even own our house — but our riches, they are plentiful. In our neighbourhood, we can dine on cuisine from every corner of the globe within minutes.
Last Friday, I wanted to order take-out. This is something I used to do every Friday night before Henry was born. We haven’t done it as much in the past year, mostly because we are all eating solids now and it feels like a waste of resources to order a meal that one of us won’t eat. It turns out I’ve been the one with the limited imagination.
So instead of worrying about what Henry would like for dinner I just picked up the phone this weekend and called the-Best-Indian-Place-In-Town (that’s all you’re getting from me). I ordered exactly what I felt like having but compromised a little: I asked for ‘medium’ instead of ‘hot’. To my surprise, Henry ate everything we put in front of him.
He even loved some of it.
My son has been ingesting a cultural cornucopia of culinary treats since way before he had tastebuds. The day he was born I ate a Bahn Mi loaded with bird’s eye chili peppers, just to welcome him to Toronto.
It didn’t take him long to arrive after that.
One of the best parts of having a child in Toronto has been watching him interact with so many other cultures in a first-hand way. His version of normal is varied and vast, and that includes his palate.
At almost three years old, he has eaten food from more countries than I knew existed when I was twice his age. This weekend alone he ate sushi, curry (Sri Lankan and Indian), his first aspic (!) and a grilled cheese sandwich. There’s no room to be picky when the world is so delicious.