Not exactly Jessica Seinfeld, but who has the time to puree a gallon of steamed zucchini?

And… that’s gross.

I sliced up the poor peach into unrecognizable strips. Sorry peach, you were beautiful the way you were, just inedible to a three-year-old. I stuck the strips in a plate compartment along side strawberry yogurt, because “dip” is half the battle.

I demonstrated.

“See! Mommy loves peach fries. Yum-yum!!” I overemphasized the deliciousness like the desperate idiot I have become.

He picked up the peach fry skeptically. He took a bite. He chewed as if it were a poop from the cat box. I smiled encouragingly, though inside I wanted to jam it down his picky little throat.

He winced. He whimpered. He pointed at the sink. I shook my head “no” and hoped he couldn’t really muster up a barf.

Then… he swallowed it.

I. Am. Not. Kidding.

Peach fries. The ridiculously improved sequel of the peach.