French Kids Eat Everything Read Online Free PDF

is their attitude to playing with food. The parenting books I read after Sophie was born encouraged me to allow her to play with her food—to finger it, mouth it, even throw it. I patiently draped large sheets of plastic over and around her highchair, and let her go at it. (This was one of the practices that had my in-laws convinced I was truly an irresponsible parent.)
    In fact, lots of toddlers that we knew played with food. Back home, before we moved to France, staff at Sophie’s day care used to play the “farmyard” game. Cheerfully opening a box of Cheerios, they would scatter them on the floor and laugh with delight as the toddlers, cackling, pretended to be chickens, leaning over and pecking the cereal directly off the floor. For the French, who won’t even sit on the floor to eat, this type of behavior is unfathomable. (Anticipating the reactions, I still have yet to tell this story to a single soul in France. It would be hard for them to comprehend that the staff were wonderful caregivers, despite this anecdote.)
    Given this history, observing the second French Food Rule was a challenge for me: when we arrived in France, I was using food as a reward, a bribe, a toy, a distraction, and a substitute for discipline. The problem, from the French perspective, was that I was teaching my kids to use food as a response to emotional needs, which have little or no nutritional basis. When bored, our kids turn to food. When they’re tired, they eat. When they’re upset, they eat. A French child would never think to do this. They’re just not programmed that way. French kids, like their parents, rarely eat for what psychologists and nutritionists term “non-nutritive” reasons. Rather, they have a deeply respectful attitude toward food.
    This respectful attitude is taught to very young children in France, sometimes in the oddest (at least to my eyes) of places. The first time I went to a restaurant gastronomique , just before Philippe and I were married, I was astonished at the reverential atmosphere. Conversations were hushed, and long, appreciative silences followed the arrival of each course as we savored the new tastes and textures. The furnishings reflected the formality of the occasion: rows of heavy silver cutlery posed on plush red velvet tablecloths that looked more like rugs. Respectful silence greeted even the rituals that appeared, to me, to be slightly ludicrous—like the discreet sweeping of bread crumbs from the table with an intimidating-looking silver ramasse-miettes (literally, “crumb-picker-upper,” an implement that looks like a tiny vacuum cleaner attachment that the waiter rolled across the table at regular intervals).
    The food was superb: course after course of playful, sumptuous, and surprising tastes. But the most surprising thing of all that evening (at least to me) was the toddler in the high chair at the table next to us. He sat patiently as the meal progressed, eyes glazing over until he slumped over and fell fast asleep while his parents continued their meal unperturbed. Unhurried, they finished the dessert course only a few minutes before we did, just before midnight. When it was time to go, their child was woken up without ceremony. Popping his thumb in this mouth, he placidly allowed himself to be carried out of the restaurant without making a sound. No one batted an eye. (My children, who were not there, would have been howling the roof down.)
    Looking back, this now seems less surprising. French children are exposed early on to elaborate meals and learn that their parents expect them to treat these occasions with respect. Their respectful attitude carries over into everyday meals, which have a slightly ceremonial feeling. The French never, ever, eat without putting a tablecloth on the table. They even have a special phrase for setting the table: dresser la table . (The word habiller , which is the normal French word for getting dressed, is