by Maggie Downs posted in Life

The scene is something out of a horror movie. An artisan, free-range horror movie.
I pull the silicone mold from the refrigerator. The homemade gummy bears pop out, minus adorable heads and faces. Instead of woodland creatures, they resemble gnawed roadkill.
I was determined to make healthy treats for my preschool son?s lunchbox ? my quest to give him everything I never had ? only they?ve made a massacre of my kitchen. Half the beet-kale slurry is dripping down the blender; the other half has been shaped into the stuff of gummy nightmares.
I was weaned on the culinary hits of 1980s Ohio, and my immigrant mother was proud to scoot me off to school with a brown bag of Americana. Meatloaf sandwiches, Ding Dongs, Tab. The closest I ever got to an antioxidant was a Crunchberry. Now my mother has long passed, I have my own family, and we?ve moved on to California, where I cook some form of kale each day. It?s state law.

 
While my mom admired both the convenience and technology of novelties like spray cheese, I make my own yogurt, pickle everything short of the furniture, and spend so long in the kitchen I?ve sprouted gray hairs just crafting the appetizer course.
I don?t know why I do this. My TV isn?t black and white, I don?t hand crank my car, but I fully embrace fermenting"
My culinary efforts seem even more futile since my food critic is a toddler, and making healthy fare appealing to him can be a stretch. (?This isn?t just quinoa...