The Twenty Taco Challenge

When I was a single mom, cooking for three picky eaters made meal time a nightmare.

The kids would whine and complain about nearly everything I served. And I mean EVERYTHING. They'd dissect each dish, suspicious of its contents. They'd sniff their plates and turn up their noses. They'd declare entire meals inedible -- despite the fact I've caught each one of them eating Play-Doh at one time or another.

Now, I'm not a bad cook -- not then, not now.

In fact, I'd go out on a limb and say I'm better than average when it comes to cooking. But when every damn meal is met with resistance and opposition, it was enough to make me want to hang myself with my own apron strings.

Little did I know that at the very time I was routinely threatening my kids with extra helpings of broccoli, 50 miles to the south, Mark was choking down his four-gazillionth frozen burrito.

At the time, Mark was a bachelor who worked long hours. In true single-guy fashion, he subsisted on freezer fare, fast food and pizza from a place he frequented so often, the owner sent him Christmas cards. Aside from the occasional dinner-hour drop-ins at his parents' house, the poor guy rarely got a decent meal.

Then we met and everything changed. The first time I cooked for Mark; it was magic.

His eyes widened with delight on the very first bite. He flashed me a smile of approval and then proceeded to inhale not one, not two, but THREE servings. The man even burned the hell out of his mouth because he couldn't stand to wait to let it cool.

As Mad Dog, Crowbar and The Deuce poked at their still untouched plates, Mark took his late bite, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his stomach.

"That," he said."was awesome!"

At that very moment, I was smitten. Here was this guy -- kind, funny, ruggedly handsome -- sitting in my kitchen praising my cooking. My cooking -- the stuff my kids complained about routinely.

It was love at first bite. For both of us.

In the four years that have passed I've made countless meals. Mark continues to show his appreciation for my cooking by downing plate after plate without so much as stopping for air. Sometimes our eyes will meet, mid-forkful and he'll flash me that big, broad smile, thanking me for dinner.

And even when a dish is a total flop, which happens from time to time, he dishes himself seconds and thirds. Dry chicken and burnt casseroles are gulped down in hearty bites just as quickly as my greatest culinary feats.

With Mark as a role model, the kids have become less picky over the years. They'll eat most vegetables without complaint and they resist the urge to freak out when a casserole crosses their plates. (Ack! Everything's touching!)

My challenge now (and that's challenge with a small 'c') is that I fall into the trap of keeping pace with Mark at mealtime, which totally sucks because...

I'M TRYING TO LOSE 20 POUNDS HERE!

Even though Mark can pack away food with astonishing speed and in enormous quantities, he never gains a pound. He's tall and thin and looks like a guy who routinely skips meals, when, truth be told, he's rarely met a meal he didn't like.

So as I'm sitting there, willing my kids to eat with every ounce of my being and watching Mark scarf down his twentieth taco, I have to remind myself to limit what I'm shoving in my mouth.

'Cause I'll tell you what, after twenty-some years of dieting, I'm certain I could match that man taco for taco.

And that's not gonna help this baby weight come off any faster.