It's in the blood

Mommy's little Fressack

My paternal grandmother, Nana, who grew up in the Bronx always speaks to us in her own (perhaps made up) language. And per our culture, the vocabulary has several words for food and people who annoy us. The word I most remember and most use myself is "fress." As in to chow down. I fress, you fress, he/she/it fresses, Let's fress! It's something our family does well. It's in the blood.

And because we are Polacks, there are two subtypes of our people: Fressacks and Pissacks. (You can probably figure the difference out on your own, sans explanation. If not, you may be what my Nana refers to as a hossesfootya. I'm sorry.)

So I'm happy to report my daughter is a Fressack. Case in point, my parents are in town this weekend and we had dinner plans. I asked my folks where they wanted to eat (as if that's a question that needs asking) and, of course, they say the local Indian joint. (Man, we eat a lot of Indian for Polacks. Maybe there's a story in the bloodline I'm not aware of. OK. Back on track).

So nine-month-old daughter is in her high chair munching away on blueberry-flavored puffs and the occasional spoonful of turkey squash dinner until THE ADULTS' FOOD COMES.

And she's freakin' out. Quick like a ninja her tiny paws are grabbing handfuls of basmati rice drenched in Goan curry sauce off my poor father's plate. I'm watching in slow-mo, powerless to cut her off before she's jammed a few long grains into her gullet.

Pshew! Close call. But now, she's pissed. So to appease the raging Fressack, I offer a sacrificial spoonful of plain rice. Surely, she can handle that. Boy, does she!

She starts delicately extracting single grains and then expressly adopts the shovel strategy. Curiosity piqued, I gingerly approach her with a small spoonful of unnatural red but oh-so-delicious butter chicken sauce. She takes it in without even looking up. Smacks her lips as if to say "Yep, that's good" and continues shoveling rice.

"Hey, watch this," I warn my parents (isn't that how disasters start?). I offer up another spoonful. This time, Josie looks up.

"Oh! Oh! She wants water," my mother saws, brows knitted, ready to douse the baby.

Smack. Smack.

"No. I think she likes it," my dad says. "Do it again."

I agree to one last bite (I don't want to risk an upset tummy in the name of flavor exploration). Suffice to say, she was 'bout it, 'bout it.

In fact, I'm pretty sure when Josie's old enough to comprehend race and nationality, she may be quite disappointed to discover she's not from the Indian subcontinent. Hopefully, she'll be sated knowing she's not a Pissack.