I was an incredibly picky eater as a child. I didn’t like meat, but my parents and pediatrician insisted it was a crucial part of a well-balanced diet. I found creative ways to rid my plate of the food I despised. I fed the dogs under the table, stealthily transferred meat onto my brother’s plate, tucked it into my pockets, and even smuggled it out of the kitchen in my shoes. I was always the last one to leave the dinner table. Most nights, my parents sat on either side of me, begging, pleading, and waiting for me to eat. After an hour or so, my mother usually gave up, slapped together a peanut butter sandwich, and slid it across the table. When I complained about what we were having for dinner, which I did nightly, my mother often chuckled and said “Would you rather have a knuckle sandwich?” I didn’t really understand what she meant when I was young, but I would laugh anyway, knowing my night would most likely end with a delicious PB & J.
“Knuckle Sandwich”–Colored Pencil