Here’s a story describing a study about picky eaters and kids with neophobia (fear of new foods). This research suggests picky eating is genetic, and parents should not blame themselves for their kids’ poor eating habits.</p><p>
The message to parents is: “It’s not your cooking. It’s your genes,” according to the story. I find this similar to the little boy with a “D” on his report card.</p><p>
The boy shows the card to his dad and says, “What do you think, Dad? Is it environment or heredity?”</p><p>
I’ve always thought there are two kinds of picky eaters: those who actually don’t like something and those who have their parents wrapped around their little fingers.</p><p>
The newspaper story mentions a woman who prepares separate meals for everyone in the family and another couple whose little boy hates fruits and vegetables so much he once fainted at the smell of orange juice.</p><p>
Can you imagine?</p><p>
Having your mom prepare a separate meal to avoid eating something you don’t especially like?</p><p>
Anyone who tried that when I was a kid would have been called “toothpick” for the rest of his life.</p><p>
I do remember a cousin who would take the crust off his bread before he ate it. When this cousin was about nine, he decided he would only drink “Whitehouse” milk.</p><p>
Whitehouse was distributed from Dayton, Ohio, and advertised by Hopalong Cassidy.</p><p>
One day my cousin ran out of Whitehouse while visiting our farm. Our town didn’t have a big selection of groceries, and my cousin’s mother became concerned about where she might find some Whitehouse milk. Luckily, enough calmer minds prevailed.</p><p>
We had an empty Whitehouse bottle and 300 gallons of milk in the bulk tank at the barn. Suddenly, there was another bottle of Whitehouse milk in the fridge – and everyone was happy.
Kids don’t have to eat everything, of course. Our grandchildren might be a good example.</p><p>
Two of them will eat most anything, and the third is a little choosier. Grandson Henry doesn’t like deviled eggs, for example, while his twin sister Hannah loves them.</p><p>
I made a batch of deviled eggs for a barbecue when the twins were about six. Henry had tried them before, and I knew he didn’t like them. Imagine my surprise to look over and see a deviled egg on Henry’s plate (little did I know his grandmother put the egg there).
Hannah was going on about how good the deviled eggs were, while Henry just ate around his. Finally, his sister said, “Boy, these eggs are good,” and Henry said, “You want another one?”</p><p>
Our third grandchild, Dema (pronounced Dee-ma), spent his first three years in an orphanage in Ukraine. I’d be willing to bet there aren’t any picky eaters at the orphanage.</p><p>
Dema will eat anything. When Dema first arrived in the U.S., we had to hide food to keep him from making himself sick. Now he eats more slowly, and he loves deviled eggs.</p><p>
I’m making some today. And I don’t care who eats them, but you can bet I’m going to hide a few.</p><p>

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.