When I first met my husband, Chris, his idea of eating veggies was to toss a couple tomato chunks in with romaine and then drown it in Caesar dressing. A strict vegetarian at the time, I was appalled. Plus, what woman hasn’t thought to herself, “I can change him.”

Challenge accepted. I started sneakily. I would make him a salad, chopping red pepper and tomato into small bits so he wouldn’t notice the intruders. Spinach leaves slowly made their appearance amidst the romaine. Maybe he noticed, but, since we were still in the “salad days” of our relationship, he said nothing. In fact, over time, he began to — dare I say — enjoy a whole rainbow of produce. Heck, he even likes Brussels sprouts now. But don’t ever put a pea on his plate.

So, when our kids were young, it came as no surprise that they inherited his picky palate. Our oldest, Sawyer, has somehow made it to 20 year of age on waffles and grilled-cheese and peanut-butter sandwiches (hold the jelly). We sometimes refer to our youngest, 7-year-old Wilder, as “Sawyer 2.0” because his mannerisms and, yes, finicky palate are eerily similar to his big brother’s. Their only veggie? Tomato sauce on pizza or pasta. Emmy, now 19, is our best eater, though that’s not saying much because Sawyer and Wilder have set the bar so low.

Pie to the rescue! Over 10 years ago, I came across Chocolate Covered Katie’s website and decided I’d try her deep-dish chocolate chip cookie pie. Gooey, fudgy and indulgent? Maybe, but it held a secret. This pie was comparatively healthy — a good source of fiber and protein. I’d once been able to sneak plants past Chris’ lips and I was hopeful this might do the trick for Sawyer especially.

As Sawyer and Emmy hop on the bus headed for elementary school, I dash to the grocery store for supplies. Garbanzo beans, check. Quick oats, check. Almond butter, check. Turbinado sugar, check. At home, I’ve got homemade applesauce, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, salt and baking soda. And let’s not forget the springform pan I registered for when Chris and I married that just needs some dusting off. Actually, it might still be in its original box.

Following Katie’s instructions, I measure, blend, fold and bake. Naturally, I “taste test” the batter. (Hey, no eggs means it’s safe, right?) Without a lick of butter, I’m shocked at just how much it resembles one of my favorite food groups, raw cookie dough, and have to stop myself from spooning it all in my mouth.

When the final product comes out of the oven, its golden-brown appearance looks like something on the cover of Southern Living, minus the dollop of whipped cream. As it cools, I remove the incriminating bean cans, taking out the trash before it tells on me. As the bus stop drop-off time approaches, I peer out the window, anxiously waiting Sawyer and Emmy’s arrival.

Finally, they walk in the kitchen door, their little noses twitching, sensing something sweet and slightly nutty in the air. Spying what appears to be a giant cookie sitting on the counter, Sawyer says, “Oooh, what is that?”

“Oh,” I say, trying to sound natural, “I found a new recipe for a deep-dish cookie pie and thought I’d try it. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“I’ll try it!” exclaims Emmy, who loves freshly baked goods almost as much as her mama.

Sawyer’s big blue eyes grow even wider. “Wait, we can have it now?”

“Sure, I’ll let you both have a little pre-dinner treat this once,” I reply with a wink.

I cut into the pie, pulling out the very first wedge, followed by the second. The center is still soft and warm, the chocolate chips melty.

The kids take a seat at our kitchen island as I slide a plate loaded with a slice and a fork over to each of them. Sawyer lifts a forkful to his mouth as I stand nearby, trying my best to be nonchalant. But my energy is practically emanating off of my body — very chalant.

Sawyer’s eyes close as he savors his first bite. “Mom, this is so good! Can you pack this in my lunch for dessert tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I say casually, but inside my brain there are two little versions of me and they are jumping up and down, high-fiving each other. “We tricked the boy into eating beans!” they’re shouting.

Sawyer does, in fact, take a carefully wrapped piece of deep-dish cookie pie with him the next day, along with his usual, a PB&J, again, hold the jelly. And each day after that until nothing but crumbs are left of the pie.

On day four, as Chris and I sit in the living room watching Jeopardy!, Sawyer plops down on the sofa. He looks a little sheepish as he says, “I don’t know what my problem was in school today, but I couldn’t stop farting. Like, all day.”

I shrug. “Hmmm, no idea.” Meanwhile, I look over at Chris and give him the don’t-you-dare-say-a-word-about-beans look. “You feel OK otherwise?”

“Yeah, I feel fine,” he says. “Just gassy.”

“Well, then I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I’ve now made that recipe for years, eventually coming clean about what’s in it to Sawyer. Luckily, he was too far gone to turn back and still enjoys a slice, especially warm. As for any other vegetables? Well, I might just let that be his future partner’s problem. Maybe she can change him.