Perhaps this is the way Picasso got started, as a baby sitting in a high chair, dumping the dish and the cup, the fork or spoon to the floor, delighting in how the green of the pea met with the yellow gravy, how the mashed potatoes looked set against the wood plank of the kitchen floor. Did he laugh with glee to see the orange yolk of the egg swirled in the white of the milk, how the red Jell-O looked floating in the yellowed chicken soup? Later, when painting became more than a figment in his mind’s eye, did he recall this early experimentation, this playing with food? I prefer to think of you in this way daughter, dabbling in colors like a young Picasso, your only tools the fingers in your food. It is much easier on my psyche to channel happy thoughts your way, preferable to my getting upset, aggravated every time you dump your food, my blood pressure rising to the roof. At every meal you fend off any attempts to feed you, preferring to lift your own fork or spoon then send them sailing, as if to say, I will be in charge of my world. I will command what is at hand. As my mind wanders, I begin dabbling in daydreams, futuristic thoughts… I am beaming with pride… you are being called a genius as you are applauded for your latest masterpiece… but swiftly I am brought back to reality, as just as quickly you hurl from your high chair this meal’s rendition, today’s most recent work of art.