Writing about food is a complex thing. After all, food's meant to be picked, prepared, and eaten. It's not meant to be witty, acutely organized, on point, or epic . . . well, maybe epic--I did once have an incredibly epic salami sandwich up in Graeagle. Food's also not meant to be broken down, overly processed, and repackaged into some colorful, well-designed representation of the real and wonderful thing. Especially family food. We all know this. But we buy into it anyway. The pretty boxes. The nicey nice. The easy. We know it's not real food, but we're still hypnotized by the fantasy. So how, as a writer on family food, do I serve you up the fantasy you're used to? How can I make a pretty story out of the mayhem that is a family of four around the dinner table?

First off, when it comes to writing about mealtime at our house, there are a whole lot of stories that have to be edited out right at the start. You know the ones--spilled milk, clenched eyes, tongues out, "Yuck!" remarks. No? Consider yourself lucky. My parents still talk about how my upchucking of corn chowder at the dinner table once led to my brother's simultaneous upchucking of corn chowder all the way down the hallway. My husband, the father of our two dear children, can't even bear to watch the "family food shows" at our dinner table each night. So you, innocent reader, definitely won't want to hear in extraneous writerly detail about the crying, whining, open-mouth chewing, booing, mashing, slashing, licking, picking, puking, smearing, and more.

Maybe it's best to just jump in with plenty of adjectives and metaphors about the abundance of fresh, real produce we've been enjoying lately in our CSA box. The firm, sweet, browny-violet D'Anjou pears; the perfectly ripe strawberries oozing sweet red syrup; and the green, green snap peas as crisp as a cricket's leap. Then I guess I could leave it up to you, the reader, to read between the lines, if you wish, to find out that we never eat all the carrots and how all of us groan when we see the bag of mangoes (Again with the dang mangoes! Since when are mangoes from Sacramento?). My husband doesn't groan about the mangoes. He says he likes the mangoes. But then he never ever eats the mangoes.

Perhaps at this point, in another attempt to celebrate the magic, I could write a paragraph or two about a strawberry-rhubarb crumble recipe I desperately want to master (leaving out that I never will). I could explain how 12 years ago, I ate said crumble at Bay Wolf in Oakland and it was so delicious that I still haven't forgotten it. Especially not its toasty walnuts. Walnuts that make me think of my favorite great-aunt in Fairfield and the ranch that she and my great-uncle owned, where we ran wild as children, eating fruit and nuts off the trees. Then I would tell you, very convincingly I might add, that this obsession over the crumble and its coordinating sense memory is really the only thing pulling me forward in the dream of better eating today. I would explain how you never know when a good, simple dish is going to seal itself in your child's memory and become a tangible story of his very own. And how really all we're made of is water, blood, bones, and stories anyway.

My son Clyde, 5, always wants to tell stories about the foods he has eaten. "Remember the restaurant where I had Smiley Fries, Mom? Remember that time we stopped at Big Spoon before dinner? Can we get donuts before we go bird-watching, like last time? Remember I had the chocolate one with sprinkles, you had that funny sugar one, and then we got the holes too?" He remembers the good. So well, in fact, that you'd think these were daily occurrences rather than special treats. Thankfully, he doesn't remember how I snapped at him when he wouldn't sit still in that restaurant. How I never even made dinner that night after the Big Spoon. Or how I cursed, walking away from the donut shop that day, because they're cash only, forcing me to lug two kids to an ATM half a block away and back.

Clyde's even started telling his stories about food to his little 1.5-year old brother, Leo.

"Leo, no! That is a delicious strawberry," scolds Clyde, when Leo lobs a piece of quartered strawberry on the floor.

"Hmm?" questions his baby brother, using one of his top-five words.

"You don't throw that on the ground. The farmer made so much time to make that. And some people don't even have any place to live, Le-OOH," his brows furrowed with seriousness.

At this point, amidst the goodness of the dinner pastorals, I would start to feel like I'm spreading a little too much phony hope about how food goes down in our house and in our lives. So I'd add in some gritty truths for good measure. Like how I bought Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food and then had my husband read it and tell me about it so I wouldn't have to actually read it. And about how I had a cup of perfectly timed French press coffee and a Claritin for breakfast. I might even talk about the apples, strawberries, and raisins I packed to take to Marine World, in order to avoid the expensive, bad-for-you goodies, but I might edit out the part where we stopped at Jack in the Box on the way home. I wonder what you'd think if I just typed out my idea of a successful dinnertime mantra: "Get in, get fed, get out!" However, I think I'd rather die a liar than tell you about how the other night I told my dad, who takes medication to control his Type 2 diabetes, "It's simple: just avoid sweets," and then went home, ate the last five cookies, and proceeded to lift the Tupperware tub and drink the crumbs.

This is about the time, in the writing and in the telling that I'd probably hit self-conscious terror and go stand in the refrigerator door wondering how to conclude. How can I tell the truth about the struggle of family eating without scaring everyone away? It's really hard to find and serve guilt-free food for a family of four every day--food that the kids will actually put in their mouths and food that's safe, ecologically sound, and humane--especially now that we're paying evermore, with the rising cost of groceries, for every bit of food we buy, consume, or clean off the floor. Some nights it's simply enough to get a few bites of prepared food and a forkful of fresh fruit down two children without anyone crying or needing to be immediately airlifted to the nearest bathtub. Sometimes it's more than enough to hear someone say "Yum!"--and if that "Yum!" is over food that grew on a tree or vine or in dirt, Halle-frickin'-lujah! But how do I say all this and then still conclude with a sense of hopefulness?

I guess this is where all that persuasive writing we practiced in college would come in handy. I wish I had paid more attention.

Because I would love to persuade you (and myself) into believing that the everyday ugliness and the struggle don't matter and that, as parents, we don't need to give them so much mind play. Because it's enough to believe in the inspiration of our efforts. And if I said all this with conviction--like someone who has no need to pretend or exaggerate or make excuses for the food choices that I make for our family--you would believe me. Or more important, you would want to believe me. I know I would. There is no doubt I want to believe that in the end, even the smallest of efforts will become pretty stories, delicious stories. And then, in the story and in the telling, our efforts will finally become truths.