Kevin looked under-nourished, another great fret of mine. He was endlessly picky with food, disliking white meat, red meat cooked 'wrong' (if Kevin disliked a dish, he would deliberate the texture with his fingers, then drop his fork and declare 'wrong!' and refuse the meal.) most sweet things (besides jelly) fruit, vegetables aside from tough broccoli, tinned goods, dried foods, soups and even junk food. One time I particularly remember, I had read in a magazine that a child is more likely to consume food they were involved with helping with, so I wanted to start off gently with a cherry pie.
"Want to help me make a pie, Kevvie?"
I was met by a weary look. He thought I meant 'watch mummy', then 'watch mummy bung it in the oven'
"No, you can help, sweetiekins!" I re-assured.
"Yeah!" He cried, looking genuinely interested, and for the first time like an actual smiling kid, and rushed into the kitchen. I had him de-stoning cherries whilst I made the pastry, then he was involved with sauce-making and filling the pie.
"We have to bake it for half an hour, sweetie. Mummy will call you later."
But Kevin played at my feet, with blocks (PLAYING with, not throwing) whilst I dreamily read a magazine, feeling like my Partridge family dream was about to come true. When the oven 'pinged', we witnessed a perfect golden-brown crust. It was beautiful, it really was.
"Do you want a slice, hun?" I enquired, waiting for my little chef to sample his work.
"No." He stated boredly. I lost it.
"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS PIE, THEN!"
Kevin considered it, on his stool so he stood tall to the counter. He plunged his hands into it, red cherry filling up his sleeves, all up to his elbows. He disembowelled the pie, crust everywhere, leaving me a great mess of the countertops to clean up, and he sauntered calmly to the living room. We never cooked again.