In the war of food introduction, where “Take No Prisoners!” is my battle cry, I must surrender this particular fight to my son and his sweet potato.  They won.  I tried and tried to keep him clean, to scoop any excess on my spoon, but the power of flying fists and pureed goodness rendered me helpless.  Take a look at those eyes.  Look deep into them and tell me that they aren’t saying, “Go ahead.  Try.  Just TRY to get in my mouth if you’re not an overly ripened fruit.”

I concede.