Big Guy loves spinach.
He gobbles it in marinara, complaining, in fact, about commercial varieties that don’t have enough “spice.”
If you tell him he likes it, though, he will deny it to his dying breath. He’s …

I love to cook. I do not love making six meals a day.
I don’t mind at all spending money on quality ingredients for dishes. I hate like heck throwing away food.
For years, the guys have …

I had an air fern in my bedroom when I was a teen, and it was the perfect plant for the Black Widow of Horticulture — because, just ask the “neighbors,” I don’t do gardening …

We’ve been on vacation for the past week, which means we’ve slipped into some nasty habits.

Bedtime has been more of a wish than a deadline. Morning clean-up has floated well into the afternoon. And regularly scheduled meals have lapsed into the category of “”vague memories.”"

But Little Guy set us straight this morning.

He marched to the “”engirator”" with his “”I’m hungry”" stance.

“”What do you want, babes?”" I asked, expecting to hear juice or ice cream.

“”I want carrots!”" he said.

If it’d been Big Guy, I would have fainted. Coming from Little Guy, though, it’s nothing unusual.

Watch him beg for broccoli! Listen to him ask for asparagus! Hear his appeals for apples!

Picky eater? More like picking his plate clean and begging for more. Good thing someone in this house has some nutritional sense

“You know the cooking slump’s reached housing-market crisis proportions when your kid calls you out on it in the grocery store.

“”Mommy, why don’t you ever make this anymore?”" Big Guy asked Friday, longingly stroking a bag of elbow macaroni.

Overlooking the fact that the last time I made mac and cheese both guys went on hunger strikes, I had to admit he had a point. I’m deep in the throes of at least a two-month, maybe three, cooking block. It’s like writer’s block, but worse, because if I stare at a computer long enough, my fingers eventually will put prose on the monitor. Not always eloquent prose, but prose nonetheless.

Nothing has seemed to snap me out of the cooking slump. I’ll thumb through a book case full of cookbooks, and nothing sounds good

Say what you will about McDonald’s — and I’ve said a lot, only to take back most of it on a Friday evening when the guys are clamoring and I’ve forgotten to take dinner out to thaw — but you have to give Ronald credit .

That clown is on the ball when it comes to listing ingredients, thus earning the eternal gratitude and frequent patronage of any family with food allergies.

That’s why I was surprised that crack cocaine isn’t listed as a hamburger ingredient. I know it’s in there. How else do you explain Big Guy willingness to gobble one, sometimes two, while refusing a burger lovingly prepared by mom?

It couldn’t be because he’s stubborn and averse to trying new foods. Drug addiction has to be the answer.

I knew this afternoon we were in

“Forget good intentions. The road to hell actually is paved with Pop Tarts.

And I am the one who has visited this evil upon my young innocents, all because I gave into a moment of weakness.

Ever since Big Guy’s been old enough to spew his first puree at me, I’ve been careful about their diets. No juice until they were 2, and dessert only if they “”eat their good food.”" They have Cheetos and tortilla chips occasionally, but usually after meals.

I’ve always insisted on a healthy breakfast. Or, at least, tried mightily to. I’d spend half the weekend baking mupcakes packed with covert pumpkin or scones stuffed with surreptitious apple. Pastries, yes, but without trans fats and high-fructose corn syrup, which truly is a tool of the devil

But in

 I love to cook.

 I have a three-foot-by-three-foot bookcase in my kitchen, filled with everything from the classics – “The Joy of Cooking” and old reliable “Better Homes & Gardens” – to whims. “Southern Living Plain and Fancy Poultry” – what was I thinking?

 The recipes folder on my computer has 80 subfolders with thousands of creative, new ideas. I have stack after stack of cooking magazines, paper clips marking interesting dishes.

 If I were to go out tomorrow and buy every gadget, appliance, pot and bread pan on my dream list, it easily would eat up a pay check.

 Invite a dozen people over for a multi-course meal? Where can I sign up?

 I hate to cook.

 If I have to slop out one more spaghetti or macaroni and cheese

I look back fondly to the days when Big Guy played happily with his tiny pots and pans as I cooked. I recall happily the times when Little Guy was content to rummage the Tupperware while I fixed dinner.

Oh, wait. That was just last week.

It’s a whole new ballgame now that the guys have discovered the joy of cooking – you can create colossal messes and get in Mom’s way. What more could a kid want?

Big Guy long has been interested in “helping,” but on his terms, which usually involved covering the table, chairs, floor, himself and Little Guy with flour.

And Little Guy is interested in anything Big Guy does. He’s trying to catch up on those two years he lost due to being the

Big Guy couldn’t have looked more horrified if I’d put a heaping pile of dog doo on his dinner plate.

“What’s THAT?” he demanded, pointing accusingly at the inch-long morsel.

“That’s a green bean,” I said. “And that beside it is roast beef. It’s a new rule. You have to try a tiny bite of everything we have for dinner.”

For some reason, it hasn’t occurred to Big Guy to argue with “rules.” He argues with everything else under the sun, but not “rules.’ So he dutifully ate the green bean – one microscopic nibble at a time. It took about 10 minutes, as he tried to stall in hopes I’d cave , but he did it.

I suppose I should be a little gentler on the poor child

I did a triple-take when I glanced at a school lunch menu hanging on the fridge at a friend’s house a few months back.

Monday, chicken nuggets and fries. Tuesday, pizza. Wednesday, grilled cheese and fries. Thursday, cheeseburger and fries. Friday, super nachos.

What the heck? Weren’t we at least two years down the road on the “healthy school lunches” kick? Obviously, some districts weren’t getting the message.

That’s why I’m glad the Legislature stepped in with fairly strict new guidelines that become law Sunday. Obviously, some districts needed help getting the message.

Call it micromanagement, call it the nanny state, call it whatever you want. The bottom line for me is, we have an obesity epidemic in this country, with adult-onset diabetes showing up in grade schools. Something

I’m not good at sneaky and clever. I prefer to hit things head-on, and when you’re dealing with small people, that usually results in getting your head bashed in. I have a perpetual concussion these days.

I don’t do spontaneous well either, unless I have plenty of time to plan it.

So it always astounds me when I’m able to pull off something with even a smidge of finesse. Tonight, I did sneaky, spontaneous and finesse. Hey, maybe I’m figuring out this Mom gig after all.

Motherhood Muses, please don’t take that as a challenge. I’ve had all the smiting this week I can stand. And besides that, I might well have re-learned something valuable here, a long-forgotten lesson about how twisty, curvy back roads sometimes get you there just as quickly as the freeway.

The sneaky, clever plot began accidentally, as Big Guy kicked off his nightly harangue roughly 2.6 seconds after he buckled his car seat. “Mommy, what are we having for dinner?” The question’s usually a trap.

The Mupcake Scam started around Halloween.

I had made muffins for a party and, just for fun and to pretend I still had time to decorate pastries, I topped each with a squiggle of purple icing and a smattering of ghost sprinkles. I put the leftovers on a cake plate, figuring I’d take them to work.

It took Big Guy 3.6 seconds to lock on the next morning.

“Cupcakes! I want cupcakes!”

Though I hadn’t finished my first cup of coffee, I had enough wits about me to run with it.”

“Cupcakes for breakfast? I don’t think so.”

“Please, Mommy, pleeeeeeeease!””

“Oh, all right. But only this once.””

Every morning since, he’s had mupcakes. Mupcakes made with evil things. Banana or pumpkin. Whole-wheat or graham flour. Low sugar and low fat.