Like Hell You’re Well

I, Fussy Mother, was just this very day at my local food market buying the freshest local foods for my fresh, local kids. This market has the kind of un-licensed, plain-wrapped dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets that my Alex and Aaron particularly enjoy.

As I arrayed my selections – tart, ripe blackberries, said nuggets, artisanal donuts, the finest European butter block  – at the checkout, and withdrew my carefully selected, reusable bag from a suitably fashionable, yet foreign, market, I was asked: “How are you?” by the checkout clerk, ostensibly a polite, charming young person educated at our local high school.

How am I, indeed.

“Imgoodhowareyou,” I responded, feelingly.

“I’m well,” said the clerk, drawing out this response in dulcet tones. I sensed the slightest hint of a smug nod, as this young person skillfully dragged my berries across the scanner.

You are well. You. Are. Well. You are.

Now, Fussy Mother is all for proper grammar. Fussy Mother thrives on it. Fussy Mother is even financially compensated for knowing its arcane rules. The Oxford Comma is nothing short of a religion for, ah, you know, Fussy Mother. End a sentence with a preposition? Only if my life depends upon it. And the subjunctive mood in English, contrary to popular belief, is not, like the dinosaur whom we honor in chicken form, extinct.  Would that it were.

But you’re WELL? Are you? This use of proper grammar is far, far, too pointed for me. It feels like showboating, somehow. Why are you, local high school student, so well? Are you off to tea with Princess Michael of Kent, or Joe Biden, or somebody? What point are you trying to make? That you are as controlled in your use of grammar as you are in every other aspect of your life?  Because I bet, you so-called well person, you are also among the set who “could care less.” Oh, could you? Why are you taking a stand on “I’m well?” Look at the rest of your life!

I could scream like a poultry triceratops right about now.


You might say, “Well, Fussy Mother, why don’t you look at YOUR life? Why can’t you care less, but you’re good?”

I don’t know, it just bugs me, leave me alone. It’s all arbitrary anyway, this grammar stuff. Like a split infinitive, for example. Fine. Bill Bryson points out in his book on the English language Mother Tongue (which you know I have read a hundred times, and that I am convinced that Bryson and I would be best friends if he only met me! I’m good!), that we only bar such stellar usage as “to boldy go” in English because it is not possible to split an infinitive in Latin (because it’s only one word).

So there you go. Boldly, or otherwise. I’ve said it. Now, think carefully next time I ask you, friend, acquaintance, or checkout clerk, how you are. If you’re good, we’re cool. But if you’re well, know that inside, I am saying, in clipped tones that betray none of my local accent, you’re not better than me THAN I YOU’RE NOT BETTER THAN I

Extreme Mom’s Night Out

What’s on the menu when mothers of little kids get out on their own? Well, it’s wine. I know. And you know I know you know. 

Look do you want me to tell you we went for the finest omakase and accompanying organic sake flight, followed by a private lesson from an Alsatian chef in how to make the perfect tarte flambé? Or we eschewed food all together and just discussed virtue signaling and Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations on the steps of the public library? Or heard an improving talk on our vanishing wetlands from a local expert, or watched Rashomon on blu-ray, or some other activity, the description of which involves italics? Maybe sometimes. We’re not complete heathens. 

But usually, there is a bunch of wine and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my hands. It’s like this answer I once got from a local liquor store – er, wine shoppe – owner, when I asked him what to buy for my friend if she liked drinking Kris, an inexpensive Pinot Grigio: 

“If she likes Kris, then just get her the fucking Kris.”

Sage words. Below, a one-sided account of what really happens when moms stop being polite. And start getting, you know, drunk.

Based on true events.


Foxwoods is perfect. No, it’s good. It’s practical, actually. It’s got everything. Spa. Dinner. Hotel. No kids.

Remember that first mom’s group at that place?

Isis Motherhood? It closed, right?

Tell them there is no reception in the casino. They are built that way on purpose. They are trying to make you delusional. It’s fine.

We can talk. Really talk for once.


No. Not even the Monopoly slots.


Just put on the robe, nobody is looking at you. Yes, I brought my own flip-flops.

I just didn’t want to deal with wearing a bathing suit. I should have brought a suit, shit. Ugh, all right. I didn’t shave. I know nobody is looking at me.

Is this Athleta? You just leave it in the cart. Eventually they’ll send you a coupon.


I just repacked the diaper bag. Well, I guess I missed some stuff. You always need wipes.

I’m just going to wear pants. It’s kind of like, I know I’m at Foxwoods, I’m not going to get too excited about it. Heels though. They’re high. Jesus. J. Crew.

The prosecco is still kind of warm. Don’t bother, I don’t care. Those Cheddar Bunnies are very old. One bottle between four people? Is nothing.

It’s five o’clock and we’re not making mac and cheese while someone cries! Whose phone is that?

Seriously? Did he look in the dishwasher?


Just get a bunch of appetizers and we’ll share. Different stuff. Edamame. Summer rolls.

Don’t answer it!

I don’t care. I don’t want Merlot obviously. I like Pinot Noir. That’s light, right?

Did he look in the cabinet? Behind the other things that are also in the cabinet?

Look at these dads at the next table. Oh, come on, they are clearly dads. Are they looking at us? What are you looking at? Don’t look at us!

Oh, you’re forty? Oh, happy birthday, that’s so great. Oh you got away from the kids? Hahahaha us too. Oh, look here’s our food! OK! Have fun!

Just get another bottle, it’s so light.

Wait. What are they saying? The dads. I can hear them talking to the host. Just be quiet a second, let me listen. Shut up shut up.

They are getting VIP passes to the nightclub. The nightclub! At Foxwoods! VIPs! It’s a nightclub in a casino. In Connecticut! I mean, calm down.

We should go though, right? No, I’m serious. Where’s the guy?

They were going to ask us, I swear. Yes, we are!

Let’s just get another glass before we leave. I’ve just had the two. And the champagne. That was tiny, though.

I mean, it’s a finite space. It’s a box. Look in the box. Look all around the big cold box.

It can’t have slipped out the back. Narnia is not behind the refrigerator.


I know, but you can’t go have a drink somewhere? While not standing at the stove making whatever? Mac and cheese! That’s right!

Talk? I’ve been talking all day!

What is she supposed to do, Jason? Fax you a map of the laundry room?


Girls get in free? We are so!

Has he checked Tim Ferriss’s blog? Not there either? Are you sure?

Come stand here by the ropes out of the way. Oh my God I love this song. I DO KNOW IT! I know songs. She’s the one with the boyfriend, the Kennedy

Nobody saw that right? I totally spilled my drink all over my pants. I am NOT! It’s just I

I just stumbled because these shoes are so high

She went to get me another one. She’s awesome

Look behind you. Don’t be so obvious!

The lady behind you has her skirt tucked into her underwear. IN HER UNDERWEAR!

The BOTTOM of the skirt tucked into the TOP of the underpants! On purpose! Just look! Don’t be so obvious!

I think half of New Jersey is here. All of Rhode Island, then.

She’ll be back, relax! Where could she go? Big box

Jason, if you were a three-year-old and YOU were his dad, where would you be hiding? I am not yelling at you!

Shit, I got it on my bag now. It’s

I’ll give her back her phone when I say so don’t worry about it

Turn around turn around I don’t think they saw us

Yeah well Jason call them THAT IS WHAT WE PAY TAXES FOR

Shut up

LOOK AT HER! UNDERPANTS! I can see them. Why

Can’t even for FIVE MINUTES!

Hey you! Get a room! They didn’t

Do what I do I’m just holding on to this thing with the rope this pole this attachment

You’re not getting anywhere with those underpants I’ll tell you that for nothing

YOU don’t even!

Whoops! No, I’ve got it


Where is Andrea? She what? She’s fine WHAT?

Ah hahaha I caught it! Didn’t do it

Should I – oh no

I’m ok no I am

Oh shit I

Oh no


No one saw that, did they? No. I don’t think.


No ma’am thank you for your help but I did not fall down I am not

I have to what?

But the underwear can stay? Look at her – thing!


Listen to her

Andrea? She’s gone


So bright out here

It’s my shoes. I fell OK, because of my shoes, they are very high very unstable I am not

It’s the shoes! Ask this one

OK, I understand. Thank you for your service


What time is? Check your phone 10:45! We did it!

See, he went to play in that closet he loves that place it’s fine!

Is that it then?

Good night, Mohegan! Or whatever

We can go back no? no


Can I have one of those cheddar NOPE

Can I have a wipe

Today at Fussy Mother’s: Hamilton is on the Menu

Welcome to Fussy Mother’s, where we pride ourselves on making the best locally-sourced food for the best locally-sourced kids. Fussy Mother is always looking for fresh, creative ways to get those local kids to the table. If you are new to our establishment, click here and here for some of our previous menus.

To entice our fussiest patrons, we thought about shaping all of their food into cubes, so they can Minecraft their way to a square meal. At Fussy Mother’s crafting table, they could help themselves to carefully-stacked towers of rice cubes, cubes of beef, or cucumbers forced to grow inside of little boxes. But the cube-shaped eggs Fussy Mother has devised are not FDA-approved yet, so Alex and Aaron will have to stick to more organically shaped foods for now. Blobs, ovals.

Eureka! As Fussy Mother’s regulars know, Alex and Aaron are so known because of their love of the musical Hamilton (See my essay over at Salon on these children’s love of Hamilton!)

So: just as Thomas Jefferson did, in “The Room Where it Happens,” I’ve arranged the menu, the venue, and the seating to get these fussy Hamilton superfans to the table. Our own Dinner Table Bargain: you eat the food in a reasonable fashion, I’ll call it whatever you want. “Talk less, eat more,” is what we always say.

May we present our Hamilton menu: each entry an homage to a song in the show. We dare you to “Say No to This”!

Say No to This chicken, pasta, cheese: off the table, non-negotiable

Wait for It grass-fed beef tacos, which will arrive faster if you stop asking me for stuff

Cabinet Battle #1 dinner is coming. if you go near that snack shelf again…


Right Hand Man pork and vegetable stir-fry, use a fork, please 

Ten Duel Commandments sit down and eat this soup before I count to ten 

You’ll Be Back homemade meatballs, don’t ask me for more five minutes before bed

Farmer Refuted fresh tomato salad, why did we plant them if you won’t eat them

Take a Break if nature must call you now, in the middle of eating, so be it 

What’d I Miss? pasta with pesto and chicken, which you will not try

The World Was Wide Enough if you don’t like how his mac and cheese smells, move away from him 

Satisfied still hungry? eat your dinner instead of asking for Swedish Fish

One Last Time PLEASE, CLEAR YOUR…never mind, just go to bed. I’m going to go sit under my own vine. And fig tree. 

Fussy Mother’s Lunch Box

Did you know that there is a filter on Instagram that automatically turns your child’s lunch, i.e., the usual slapdash amalgamation of available food content, into a Bento box? It’s true. It’s called Bento. It’s next to other filters, such as Bastardo, which causes a face-pulling imp to smile angelically, and Immaculata, which makes your house look clean.

The Bento filter adds a patina of care to your child’s lunch box, taking the tossed-in baby carrots and half-eaten granola bars from yesterday, and organizing them into silicone-wrapped quadrants of love.

The remains of the day.
The remains of the day.

See, Alex? See Aaron? Fussy Mother does love you. Look. According to my phone, your cheese sandwich is shaped like a panda bear. They believe anything they see on the phone, so.

At Fussy Mother’s, Bento box lunches are not on offer. Instead I approach the packing of the nonproprietary Minecraft lunch boxes thusly: how can I walk the line between what I think Alex and Aaron will actually eat, and what will appear to be carefully thought-out and healthy if these lunches are accidentally glimpsed by a teacher, or worse, other parents? Parents who may be at school, say, to do PTO stuff, or eat lunch with their children when they don’t actually have to? Fortunately, the dueling Fussy brothers have summer birthdays so I don’t have to. Eat lunch in a room full of other people’s children, I mean.

May I reveal my latest menu: Fussy Mother’s Lunch Box Favorites. Enjoy. Either at lunch, or five minutes before dinner.

Fussy Mother’s Famous Chicken Soup lukewarm, I assume they have spoons in the lunch room

American cheese sandwich white, calcium

Peanut butter and jelly sandwich now, I know it sounds crazy, but…

“Chewy Dipps” granola bar whole grain, somewhere

Red grapes cut into infinitesimally small pieces, neurotic

Applesauce goes down real smooth

Bell pepper slices use ’em at dinner

Nilla wafers party like it’s 1979

Extreme Cheddar Goldfish no sugar, technically

Local-brand Doritos, aka “Honchos” didn’t make it to the lunch box, sorry

Mini guacamole cups, Day One it was good? let’s go with it 

Mini guacamole cups, Day Two now what am I supposed to do with all these

Nutella and baguette fancy, just like you

Money for hot lunch it’s Breakfast-for-Lunch day! it wasn’t?? 

Bonus Tip! Pack all items in transparent containers. Because if the food can’t be seen, say through canvas or thick BPA-free leaf-green plastic, it technically does not exist

A Guide to Hand Foods

Forks. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing, Fussy Mother says.

And “spoons”? What a silly word. Say it over and over again, and you will see how truly meaningless it really is.

Children should not be constrained, we feel, to social norms that require us to keep food at hand’s length. The floor can be wiped, and so can the walls. The clothes can be pre-treated, pre-washed, and then treated and washed. Bathtubs exist.

Here at Fussy Mother’s, utensils are strictly optional. The world will come along and squash our precious flowers soon enough, so why should we participate in the process?

Or say you are seated in a booth at your local diner, and your little one opts to eat the macaroni and cheese (neon orange, kids’ menu) by the fistful. An adjacent diner looks up (tuna melt, rye), and eyes her friend (complete turkey dinner).

Let them stare! He is just being creative, you see! Isn’t that why they give you crayons, so you can express?

Fussy Mother has gone to her own precious child-garden to pluck this list of foods that you can encourage your darlings to eat utensil-free this summer. All of these are foods I have actually seen my children, Aaron and Alexander, eat with their fingers.

And no, they didn’t wash their hands first. That’s nature’s penicillin you are washing down the drain there.

No, I’m not mad.

Yogurt also a moisturizer

Couscous develops fine motor skills

Meat Medieval

Pizza well, ok

Rice go on

Asparagus will your hands smell like pee, then?

Chicken soup says you

Maple syrup eliminate the middle man

Fussy Mother must say, however: Aaron may dig into an ice cream dish digit first, and eat couscous by the speck, but there is one food that yours truly has never seen dear Aaron eat with his hands. One where he must always have a knife and fork, and by Jove, if they are not readily available, Fussy Mother will scour the earth for them, i.e. ask a wait person for them with an apologetic, yet slightly pleased, wince:


Hamburger not a hand food



Fussy Mother’s Summertime Recipe: Chicken Soup

Fussy Mother’s prides itself on its reputation as a seasonal local eating establishment. Here at Fussy Mother’s, we look around us, indoors and out, and then we head to the kitchen, filled with the inspiration of the gifts of the given season, and the locale in which we find ourselves.

Say we are in France, by an azure sea? Goldfish crackers recall the briny deep and a wild orange sunset. New York? A large apple will do nicely. Are you adjacent to a bistro in Montreal? There’s a supermarket over there that sells the best maple cookies.

It’s August in Fussy Mother’s home kitchen. The sea calls in the distance; a turkey ambles at the end of the road, plotting an exit strategy for the coming fall. The air is hot and steamy; thunder threatens. What’s on the menu at Fussy Mother’s? Of course it’s Chicken Soup.

There is nothing quite like standing over a boiling pot of foul on a summer day. And there is nothing like the smile on the face of a young Aaron, eating his favorite and most evergreen of meals.

It really is the only thing he will reliably eat. Ever. At all. I could think of worse things for a child to eat nearly daily in the heat of summer, and the dead of winter, I suppose. May I present my recipe.

Chicken Soup. It’s salty like Fussy Mother’s tears.

One whole chicken. From your local supermarket. Washed. Rubbed with salt. Devoid of gizzards. If it is not organic just tell everyone it’s organic no one will ever know.

Many peeled carrots. Cut into large chunks. To taste, but at least four, as many as eight.

Peas. Chilled into submission. Just grab a large chunk from the bag.

A few stalks of celery. Whole, so you can later easily remove these foul fronds.

Two bay leaves. Also to be removed, but that is customary.

A sprig of parsley, a spring of dill. Which, again, JUST TAKE IT OUT

From here on out, it’s like making tea. A very complicated, long-steeped, meat tea.

Submerge the chicken, whole, in a large pot of cold water. Add the bay leaves.

Allow the chicken to come to a boil. Skim off anything unmentionable.

Once boiling, add the carrots, celery, and herbs. Also if you wish to put your own creative stamp on this, feel free. You could add potatoes, turnips, parsnips, other herbs, onions, whatever you like. That’s on you.

Allow total two hours for cooking and steeping.

Remove…well everything. Place into a bowl. Let me pause here for one moment.

When I say that my son Aaron Burr likes chicken soup, he would never let actual chicken meat pass his lips. Just its watery essence.

Let me continue.

Strain the soup to get rid of any unsavory bits. The actual unsavory bits, i.e., scum, bone, cartilage shards.

Back in the pot, add back in anything your diners will permit: the carrots. Or if you dare: the chicken itself, gently shredded. At this point, add the peas. Do not add the peas with the other vegetables, wait until now. Learn from Fussy Mother.

You will have enough for about three quarts, some of which you can freeze for other hot summer days when you are at the beach and feel like a refreshing sip of something hot and meaty. Or when the rest of the family is eating something your chicken soup lover doesn’t like, like chicken.

Now if this isn’t Instagram ready, #SUMMER!, I don’t know what is.

Serve with:

Rice as Aaron prefers

Tiny pastina stars which is the only way I can get him to eat pasta, but that is for another blog entry

Tortellini this is just a suggestion, Aaron won’t

Egg noodles I guess?

Sliced supermarket baguette for dipping (Bonus tip from the diner himself)

Grated parmesan then you can say he’s eating all four food groups simultaneously. Virtuous.

Watch him enjoy as you make something else for yourself to eat.










Fussy Mother’s Locavore Cafe: What My Other Son Ate in One Day

Welcome back to Fussy Mother’s. Last week, we presented a menu catering to the cravings of our resident (nearly) nine-year-old, Aaron Burr. A smorgasbord of the finest morsels available for blocks around. Carefully planned and executed for the most particular of fussy kids.

But what about our other favorite locavore? The (nearly) six-year-old, Alexander Hamilton? Here I present his own, individually-tailored, thoughtfully-prepared, Instagram-ready menu from just yesterday.


Waffle fork

Sausage all righty 

Yogurt, any flavor but blueberry I can live with that 

Camp Snack

Didn’t see it in my backpack move the towel it’s there


Camp-provided sandwich don’t worry about it

After-Camp Snack

Granola bar go for it

Ice-cold milk he calls cow’s milk “fresh mommy milk” because I pour it for him…flattery accepted, let’s say no more about it 


Ribs your brother likes them, so

Green beans seated

Corn bread hey why not?


Ice pop lime if you have it 

Don’t have it Easter candy’s fine

More candy? good night


Look, I don’t want to compare my two boys.

Actually, yes I do. I mean, seriously. Fussy Mother often wonders: what makes two children, raised in the same home, with the same parents, and the same food available at largely all the same times, have two completely different ways of eating? Why does one eat the baloney (oh, sorry, bologna, it’s Italian) the camp kindly provides, and the other require couscous in a Star Wars Thermos, kept lukewarm till he opens it to dine in the middle of the woods in deepest July?

Or maybe he requires no such thing…maybe if I left him to his own baloney, he would be fine.

There’s a thought. I could just…what would he…? No, Aaron, I could say, no soup today. No couscous. Just deal with…eat the…hmmmm. Should I?

Nope nope never mind too late for that. It started when he was a baby and I bought a food mill and now I’m stuck with it till college and I have to write a letter to the dining hall to make sure they have the baguettes with the right crumb structure. Maybe they will let me send in some couscous and they can just keep it in the back.

Harvard allows that, right? Fussy Mother will check. In the meantime, I will just get Alexander his…nope we are done talking about it.


Recipe for an uneaten dish: fried squash flowers

Fussy Mother knows that busy parents love tips. They’ll take tips about anything from anybody, anywhere. Except their spouses, of course. Or parents.

Discipline pointers, for example, from a lady in the condiment aisle. Time-out timing from a well-meaning electrician. “Sleep when the baby sleeps,” is a fun one. My book club tells me The Art of War by Sun Tzu is a useful read. And of course, oodles of recipe ideas.

So in case you were lacking in those: please enjoy Fussy Mother’s first recipe.

But let me save you a step: I will just tell you now that your kids won’t eat it. That’s my tip for you.

A quick look around the internets will tell you that the time is nigh, in the heights of summer, for squash blossoms. As a food, not a decoration. But Fussy Mother is proud to say she knew them when.


These flowers bring back many childhood memories. The plants would curl and creep along the chain link, and bear so many enormous summer squash and zucchini that you couldn’t possibly eat them all. Actually, you probably would be more likely to brain a burglar with the zucchini my aunt grows than hack it up and eat it somehow.

But all the sunny yellow flowers? We would dredge them in batter and fry them up, and for me, they were the best reward at the end of a long, hot summer day spent racking up Library Summer Reading Club points and avoiding sunburn. We call them pittule, as they do in my mother’s Italian hometown. No, not Brooklyn.

I found these fiori di zucca at a local farm last week, as you do, and decided to treat my All-American children to my favorite childhood snack. “Did they love them, as you did, Fussy Mother?”

They would not even look at them, never mind eat them. A friend of A. Ham‘s was visiting and she ate a few, though. She is now my favorite child.

Here is the recipe as it was passed down to me, and I hope you enjoy eating the whole batch while your children make faces and eat Doritos. Local, organic Doritos of course.

Pittule. AKA Fried Squash Flowers. 

Either buy or pick bunch of flowers. Say 20. Take out the stamen and the pistil and whatnot until you are essentially left with a tube of petals. Like a tiny, earth-mother-type skirt for a little doll.

Make a batter. As my mother told me, “start with two eggs and then just see how it goes, it’s not rocket science.”

To the beaten eggs add flour (about a cup, but like I said, see how it goes), some water (start with half a cup, you can add more as needed), a big handful of grated cheese, salt, pepper.

The batter should be the consistency of pancake batter. So balance the water and the flour until you get to that. Add a little water, a little flour. It’s a feeling. The first time I made it I ended up with way too much batter because I kept adding flour and water, over and over, till I got to the pancake consistency. But it was OK because I had some wallpaper to put up after.

If you take it slow and think of pancakes you will be fine. I promise.

When you are happy with that: heat some olive oil (NOT Extra Virgin. This is not for cooking. Or for referring to as EVOO), enough to cover the bottom of a large frying pan a centimeter deep TOPS. Don’t go nuts.

This is as scientific as it gets. I learned this from someone who uses a Snoopy drinking glass as a measuring cup.

Put a drop of the batter in the pan to see if it sizzles, and if it does, grab a flower, dip it in the batter, and fry and flip until golden brown. Drain on a paper towel. Don’t waste Bounty on this, get cheap paper towels for draining, OK?

Offer them to your kids. Tell them you ate pittule when you were their age and you had no Xbox. Or even Call Waiting. Then you will have to explain what Call Waiting is.

Eat them all yourself. Turn on broiler for hot dogs.

Bonus Winter Tip: just fry the batter, who needs the flowers




Fussy Mother’s Locavore Cafe: What My Son Actually Ate in One Day

Welcome back to Fussy Mother’s. Today at the Cafe we present, with no embellishments or exaggerations of any kind, I swear, what my actual nearly-nine-year-old son, we’ll call him Aaron Burr, ate on an actual day, July 18, 2016. Wait for it


Real Canadian maple syrup  waffle bits

Sausage links Dad-sourced, unwashed cast-iron pan

Additional real Canadian maple syrup costs more per barrel than crude oil

Watermelon thou shalt not touch ye waffle and ensoggen it

Further real Canadian maple syrup enough already


Camp-provided lunch rejected, perfectly adequate

Cous-cous  I forgot to pack a fork, uneaten

Sliced supermarket baguette continental

Ritz Bitz cheese adjacent

Clementines u peel ’em

After Camp Snack

Marino’s Italian Ice  cherish your heritage



Stir-fried pork, broccoli, bell peppers  you have a fork now use it 

Steamed rice  you couldn’t eat cous-cous without a fork, but now rice is a hand food?

HI-C Ecto Cooler  ok, but no ice pop after dinner then


Ice pop sweet dreams



The History of Fussy Mother

In a previous blog I had, I wrote some menus for the modern parent and child, which are the inspiration for this new blog:

For the fussy mother – the mother who wants only the best, and the child who couldn’t care less.

Below is Fussy Mother’s first ever menu, from the archives. Since the fussy kid always finds a new way to challenge the fussy mother, look forward to a new series of menus, tips, and ideas. Because that’s what mothers need, more tips.



Welcome to Fussy Mother’s. All menu items are micro-local, carefully sourced from a five-block radius of Fussy Mother’s. Menu items vary seasonally and with the vacuuming schedule. 


Snow local boot mud, Massachusetts gravel

Housemade yogurt shake milk-flavored, November sippy-cup

Apple juice half town tap water, virtuous

Dregs recycle-bin wine bottle


School gym Cheerio native dust rabbit

Couch Goldfish damp leather sous-vide, oatmeal-crusted owl-head bowl

Year-old robin’s egg nest of pencil shavings, shredder paper

Shaped crackers native Lego

Backyard scourge mint call it basil if you want

Fridge-aged baby carrots lightly orange, dry

Stop & Shop Cereal Bar unwrapped, no TV

Apple squeezer stained car seat, I-95

Additional Goldfish when I get around to it



Lunchbox contents available till dinner

Freezer chunk brown, ice crust, saddish peas

Sidewalk pine cone rain-stewed, not poop

Native dumplings plastic bag, 1994 Nissan, organic soy sauce

Found PB&J bitten, French-like jam

Meatballs backyard tomatoes, grandmother watching

White oak acorn mash driveway shards, chipmunk pee

Braised chicken cookbook-sourced, yuzu, wild rice, asparagus, deal with it

Sal’s pizza you liked it yesterday

Roasted farm share root vegetables for decoration


Girl Scout Cookies pushiest local troop

American chocolate fun-sized, Halloween 2011

Pez Spider-Man, with please and thank you

Mandatory apple peeled, or “whole bites”

Cheese plate wrapped stick, finger pinches of grated romano, no thank you

Your table awaits.
Your table awaits.
God forbid you provide your mother with gratuity 18% of the time
You won’t eat eggs so we don’t have to worry about how raw or cooked they are