We just spent twenty-five dollars on organic milk, said Justin the other day, after groceries. How come he gets free-range chicken, and we get frozen peas?

We say he eats what we eat, but he doesn’t. He eats better. Bags of juicy, organic pears from halfway around the world, defying the seasons at ten bucks a pop. Locally-grown lamb with fresh-ground north indian spice. Dairy products from cows who each enjoy their own personal la-z-boy, plasma-screen TV with universal remote control and beer-dispensing ballcap. It’s amazing how much the bills have grown, with the addition of one small boy.

Much of it lands in the compost. We simmer, chop, season, oooh, ahh and present with a flourish. Then we turn away, holding our breath, pretending we don’t care. He pokes, swipes, stares blankly. Five minutes later, he munches happily on toast crusts.

We're in constant search of new tricks and small victories. The latest culinary discovery: he is his mother’s son. Ketchup, on anything, is good. On eggs. On alphabet pasta. On fingers. On tofu. Little, teeny, perfect white squares, the slippery, tasteless kind that bobs in miso soup, lined up in a row and squirted upon with a straight red line, all the way across. He ate half a block this way, last night. And nothing else.

Toddlers require a nutritional shift in thinking: from the balanced meal to the balanced week. Doing so greatly reduces mealtime teeth-gnashing. If today is an All-Orange day and tomorrow is an All-Fishstick day, so be it.

That's halfway to perfection.