When Tootie was just a wee thing, Hubs and I lived in San Antonio for a year. Within a few months, we’d become regulars at several Mexican restaurants. I was pregnant with the E-man and, just like my first round of pregnancy, craved all things spicy.

One restaurant we deemed a fave because of it’s incredible salsa.

Partaking of a really good salsa involves three stages:

At first, you notice only the amazing flavor.

Then you begin to feel the burn, which quickly morphs into pain.

If you’ve got the stamina to keep going, however, an interesting thing happens — while you can still taste the salsa, your mouth goes numb, just enough to eliminate the pain factor.

One evening, Tootie, who was almost 2, demanded to plunge her chip into that salsa.

She ate one coated chip. A second. A third. Then she began sobbing.

“Too hot for her,” Hubs concluded.

But after a few sips of water, Tootie grabbed another chip and pointed at the salsa.

“More,” she said.

From that experience, I learned that children — if not influenced by picky eaters, like, say, their Daddy (ahem) — are way more adventurous than we give them credit for.

Which is why I enjoy exposing mine to different types of food. They love all things Asian. And the E-man harbors a particular fondness for my Greek chicken, which I marinade for several hours before cooking it.

Now if I could just convince Hubs that onions are not evil.