Vittles Kids is a special, subscribers-only project all about the relationship between children and food. Think of this as a digital weekend supplement: features, essays, opinion and guides all in one place.

A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

Vittles Kids

This morning, I came downstairs at 7.30am and found my partner and my young daughter asleep on the sofa – she woke up at 5.30am and he took her downstairs to play so I could stay in bed. In return, I made French toast for breakfast with bacon and blueberries. They sat down, she put three blueberries in her mouth, spat out two, ate one. She chewed up and spat out some bacon, ate a few mouthfuls of French toast and a few more blueberries. She was mainly excited by the achievement of getting pieces of French toast on her fork, which she then determinedly tried to feed my partner and me, making us into her babies. She was transfixed by seeing maple syrup poured out and kept requesting more be poured pieces of the toast, with no intention of eating it. She was having the time of her life.

What I increasingly understand is that what my daughter gets out of a meal is not straightforward. Sometimes it’s eating a plate of food, but just as often it’s the pleasure of play and discovery. Other days, everything is refused, and I despair. Feeding her is a humbling, depressing, funny, and occasionally rewarding experience that keeps me guessing (and sweeping up). It’s also a privilege to see a child discover texture, taste and a sense of their own autonomy at the table, even and perhaps especially when it means abandoning any sense of your own.

In this month’s Sunday supplement we present a collection of six essays, recipes and a kids restaurant guide, all by writers with varied perspectives on feeding children at home and in public. Rukmini Iyer, author of the celebrated Roasting Tin cookbook series, casts a spell with her formula for a magical children’s party, sharing sage advice and four allergy-friendly recipes to make sure that adults stay sane and kids have a fun-filled time. Laura Goodman’s essay ‘That must be hard’ is a deeply moving and darkly funny account of raising children with serious allergies (once she and the medical establishment had managed to find out what they were). In Scam Patrol! Tim Anderson investigates the marketing maze surrounding children’s food asking himself is this a scam? (and discovers that the biggest scam of all where he least expects it.) In Ishita DasGupta’s essay ‘You need to make less pasta and more rice’, Ishita writes about helping build her daughter’s relationship with the food of her Bengali heritage, and speaks to other parents in mixed race families about sharing their cuisines with children. In a particularly reassuring essay (I almost cried with relief when I first read it!), Rukmini Iyer fesses up on the reality behind the idyllic photos of her children eating her food in a recent Roasting Tin book: The things I cook for work…and what my children actually eat.

And finally – the saviour of nervous new parents and those entertaining children in the holidays – we have the Vittles Kids Restaurant Guide (+ map!) in which writers share 75 personal recommendations for where to eat in London with babies and kids. – RMJ

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'That must be hard'

Laura Goodman on raising children with allergies. Illustration by Sing Yun Lee.

“Z is being sick fifty to sixty times a day, and over the weekend we’d become so panicked by the volume of vomit we’d taken her to A&E. The doctor is annoyed because as far as he’s concerned Z has a bit of reflux and he’s already told me that; he’s received word that I attended A&E and has taken my ‘ticket’ as a stain on his excellence.”

The things I cook for work...

...and what my children actually eat, by Rukmini Iyer. Photos by David Loftus.

“Anyway, as if leaning towards her solidly Anglo Saxon-Cornish-Irish heritage, overnight Alba’s diet shrank to just buttered toast, buttered broccoli (but only tenderstem, and only the stems), buttered pasta, or indeed, just butter, supplemented with fruit (but only expensive fruit), and chocolate cake at the weekly rounds of children’s birthday parties. I despaired.”

Scam Patrol!

Tim Anderson finds his way through the kids’ food marketing maze. Illustration by Ming Yue.

“Simply to exist in our unfettered free-market society is to be scammed, all the time, every day. If you’re a parent, you’re doubly scammed, because our kids constantly compel us to buy stuff that we know is a rip-off. Too often, by the time it occurs to me that I might be getting conned, it’s too late and I’ve already bought the thing. So, to try and become less of a chump, I’m investigating four suspicious phenomena in the world of kids’ food, to answer that nagging question: is this a scam?”

'You need to make less pasta and more rice'

The joys and challenges of feeding children in a mixed race family. Words by Ishita DasGupta. Illustration by Tomekah George.

“It takes time for me to realise part of my drive to introduce flavour and spice is rooted in the fear my daughter may reject Indian food. When my husband finds me crying in the kitchen after she refuses a bowl of aubergine bhorta (I have equated this to her wanting to deny part of her heritage and, in turn, me), he gently tells me to take some time out. In retrospect, I remind myself of the many flavours and textures I disliked as a child and how, in adulthood, these are elements I now savour.”

Rukmini Iyer's Magical Children's Party Recipes

Fun, allergy friendly recipes you can involve children in, and sage advice for a successful kids party. Words by Rukmini Iyer. Illustration by Lizzy Stewart. Photos by Georgia Rudd.

“By far the most important thing I’ve learned is that there’s absolutely no point giving yourself a nervous breakdown over the catering the day before the party (been there). Although I’m providing recipes for four different types of party food here – some of which can double up as activities for the kids – making just one or two is more than enough.”

The Vittles Kids London Restaurant Guide

Vittles writers share recommendations for where to eat with children in London.

“During a recent visit where we ate a seafood broth, crispy pork belly and the freshest pomelo salad, our daughter had a stir-fry of chicken with green beans, cucumber and sticky rice. She loved it. It was pedestrian enough for her not to feel intimidated while adventurous enough for her to experience tastes different to what she usually eats – and help her be even bolder in the future. It was a really refreshing middle ground for a children's menu that I wish more places offered.”

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A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

As every parent and carer knows, the ways a restaurant can be ‘child friendly’ is as varied as the needs of the child (and the adult!) themselves. Some restaurants are simply set up to cater to families, like dimsum parlours where each baby is treated as if they’re visiting royalty. Some have particularly good changing facilities, or won’t roll their eyes when you ask to bring a pram in. Some are particularly good at changing menus in response to allergens; some have kids menus that offer fussy children some dignity.

Here is a London guide to 75 places, including multiple branches, of restaurants that cater well to children: from independents to chains. They are all useful for different situations, but what all of them share is a sense of hospitality that is responsive to the very specific needs of a hungry adult and even hungrier child.

Central

Café François

Café François is a relaxed, grown-up place to eat that magically welcomes children (and dogs), and a lovely antidote to the exceptional busyness of Borough Market. The service is excellent and there are frites galore, a stunning dessert counter and stylish baby-changing facilities. At lunchtime, it's full of mothers with remarkably well-behaved babies in prams and young children (mine behave themselves with the promise of a macaron for pudding; I behave in anticipation of a chocolate éclair). I love the courgette fries, gougères and rotisserie chicken. – RI

Cafe Murano

Cafe Murano in St James’s has a good-value kids’ menu (as do all three branches) that includes generously portioned homemade pasta or chicken Milanese and ice cream for £10. On arrival, staff will present your children with crayons and things to colour in, and will also indulgently check in on them (and you) through the course of the meal. My daughter’s three-year-old dignity was outraged when a waiter patted her head (it's the curls, they're too cute), but this was a small price to pay for truly excellent food in smart settings. Also, the baby-changing facilities are good. – RI

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A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

The number of new food allergy cases doubled between 2008 and 2018, and the sharpest increase was in young children. Still, I would describe our collective attitude to allergies as dismissive (at best) and scathing (at worst). This is thanks in part to many decades of demonising food groups, which muddies the waters between mortal danger and bloating, and a deep-rooted belief that allergies exist in the realm of the neurotic. (The possible reasons for the increase in childhood food allergies are myriad and complex – and summarised nicely by scientists in this episode of Gastropod.)

As an allergy parent who writes, but who has barely dared write on this topic, it’s the hypervigilance – the way there is always something allergy-related to think about – I find myself most eager to share. It’s the thing that occasionally separates me from the parents around me, who (lovingly) pass me ingredients labels to check because they don’t know how to read them like I do, and who say ‘That must be hard’ and mean it, but don’t know the half of it.

I wanted to try to paint a picture for you, but I had to delve into some weary recesses of my mind to find the material, so what I’ve written is more of a collage.

1.

‘Have you tried football hold?’ A kind woman has entered my house to help me breastfeed, because we’re struggling. I am weeks in, bleeding all over the sofa. I’m shrunken by my interactions with professionals, so the woman’s kindness is a relief, but now I feel like I’m letting her down, too. ‘Relax!’ she says. ‘Don’t think about it!’ My failing body finds itself stiff but reclined, randomly angled. The kind woman coaxes the baby – Z – to the correct position, even though she insists the baby can and will find the nipple herself if I relax enough. I do not believe for one second that relaxation or football hold can fix us.

2.

I don’t know Dr O, but I’ve seen him being jolly in the waiting room, parading babies around like this is his courtyard and these are his cherubs, making jokes about which football teams the babies will support. I suspect Dr O hates the mums, though, and I’m right.

He is leaning back in his chair with his feet crossed on his desk, eyes fixed on his computer screen. It’s a stance I know well from when I did work experience in newsrooms around the time of the financial crisis in 2008, when I still believed journalism careers were available to normal people.

‘What is it you don’t understand, Laura?’

He clicks his mouse, does not look at me. He’s Tony Montana and I’m responsible for some unknown betrayal, but instead of mountains of cocaine there are Bristol Stool Charts and blood pressure monitors, because this is a doctor’s surgery and this man has a duty of care.

Z is being sick fifty to sixty times a day, and over the weekend we’d become so panicked by the volume of vomit we’d taken her to A&E. The doctor is annoyed because as far as he’s concerned Z has a bit of reflux and he’s already told me that; he’s received word that I attended A&E and has taken my ‘ticket’ as a stain on his excellence.

That same afternoon, at a clinic, Z doesn’t weigh enough and a new health visitor cocks her head to the side and asks me why I think that might be.

The only sane way to deal with what is happening to me is to go mad, and that process is well underway. I become aware that my child’s suffering is my fault – that I’m in a race against everyone and everything to determine what it is I’m eating that’s making her sick. I do not even have time to process the strange newness of this relationship between our digestive systems. The doctor says: It’s nothing to do with your milk, that’s impossible.

3.

A kind friend brings me some food and the friend is Meera Sodha and the time is around the publication of her book, East. Lunch is her sprout nasi goreng, which she describes in her Guardian column as “smothered in unami-ific sauces”. I’ve given up dairy by this point and the vomiting has eased, but soon after eating the sprouts, there is a sick so large and violent that Z and I both wail inconsolably. I cut out soy. Within two weeks, the vomiting completely stops. It’s nothing to do with your milk, that’s impossible.

4.

It’s easier to move around the world when your baby isn’t in a permanently soggy muslin fortress, so I start doing a bit of living. At a baby group, a woman tells me that for a little while she’d thought her baby had a dairy allergy, ‘but actually she’d had an earache!’ My brain starts swilling around in my head and I picture myself falling backwards into a hole, making sure to cushion Z’s fall with my own body. Contrary to popular opinion, the company of other parents isn’t ‘just what I need’. If we’re in the same boat, the leak is not affecting us equally. I wade home through treacle, or colostrum – something sticky. That must be hard.

5.

I love food and know what’s in things, so I’m confident at weaning and we’re having fun. Among the things Z loves are eggs, noodles, avocado, pickles, aubergine, peanut butter, okonomiyaki, shepherd’s pie and pancakes, and her chubby wrists have that invisible rubber band effect. Nonetheless, I’m locked into the NHS’s outdated, clunky programme for young allergics and must see a dietitian. The dietitian recommends Bird’s custard powder. She’s very proud to have noticed that if you make it with an alternative milk, it’s dairy-free. I nod and leave, clutching print-outs, for I must bravely proceed to the first rung of the milk ladder.

The iMAP milk ladder is the day-to-day work of a less severe allergy. It’s a series of steps, designed to gradually increase tolerance – small amounts of milk powder baked into a biscuit, followed by whole milk baked into a muffin, followed by whole milk in a pancake, and so on. It’s now a well-trodden path for people with a moderate milk allergy, but it doesn’t exist in the same way for all food allergies (as I’ll find out later, no spoilers!). Doing the ladder is just another task – like packing a bag for gymnastics, doing phonics homework or putting LEGO away – only it involves a) baking b) precision and c) observing your child as you would a science experiment: her eczema, her level of comfort, her shit. Every day, the milk ladder says: You alone have the power to get her over it – are you doing enough?

I spend many an hour grappling with quantities, finding ways to bake milk powder into edible items. Someone on YouTube recommends buying Garibaldi or Malted Milk biscuits instead, which is the sanest thing I’ve heard for months.

As for the Bird’s custard: I don’t like it, so I don’t buy it. I’m starting to remember that you can ignore people.

6.

We have a second perfect baby – G. And urgh, she isn’t gaining weight quickly enough. I’m feeding round the clock in a bid to escape the midwives’ clutches. My understanding is that to survive in this town, you need to shake off the medical professionals. GPs and health visitors know little about allergies. In my experience, they will say ‘It’s probably not that’ in the face of itchy, writhing evidence. I toy with a state of denial as G settles into a life of bleeding eczema, congested breathing and vomiting, but eventually, the round-the-clock screaming plummets us into the darkness. She is not comfortable in her body.

The nights are ear-splitting and gruelling; Rich and I pass G between us, staring at each other, despairing. We sleep in thirty-minute bursts for months on end and are zombified by day. One afternoon, I go out for dill and come back without it. Rich goes to the shop and asks if his wife left her dill on the counter. The guy says, No, your wife definitely took her dill! He plays his CCTV footage and there I am, paying for the dill and then grimly, mechanically putting it in my coat pocket. Another night, the crying is so guttural, so continuous, so bleak, that after four hours, we start to worry. Is something different going on tonight? We dial 999 and get an automated message. Eventually, we all fall asleep.

7.

We’ve established that G is allergic to milk, egg and soy. We’re weaning her early as per the advice of our consultant and I’m keen as mustard (one of the top fourteen allergens) to work swiftly through the other big names – rule them out, if you will. I mix a little tahini in some courgette puree and forty minutes later there are six paramedics standing in our living room, just as Z returns from nursery. I am firing off deranged messages from the ambulance and my friend Janet (not a zombie) says, Oh shit, remember last Sunday she was really bad? We’d eaten hummus the day before.

8.

The allergy clinic is a mind-melting beast I could not hope to summarise here (I would lose you instantly; I tend only to share the details with my internet friend, fellow allergy mum Amanda, whom I’ve never met). But rest assured we’ve been through several rounds of pinprick tests and blood tests before we are summoned for a sesame challenge. At a ‘challenge’, the child must eat their allergen in increasing amounts every twenty minutes to see what happens. One consultant keeps repeating that it’s the ‘gold standard test!’, which is a bonkers thing to say, but demonstrates the inefficacy of the actual tests we have available in 2025. As requested, we pack our own Sesame Snaps (four packets) and arrive at 8am on a Sunday. An older boy opposite us is with his dad to check if he’s still allergic to octopus; they’ve brought their own Brindisa octopus tentacles, steamed in their own juice. Quite quickly, his mouth starts to itch.

Janet (the friend that’s not a zombie) has come with us and she is saying to me, We know what’s going to happen, Laura, she’s not going to get past the first dose. And I think it’s interesting Janet is so sure about that, because the soup of medical lunacy I’ve been sipping has led me to believe that maybe I’ve made all this up and G is actually not allergic to anything.

For some reason, we are instructed to skip dose one (lip challenge) and go straight to dose two (0.5g of the specified food). G eats it and is fine, but I can see some reddening on her face; I hear myself pointing it out and decide I’m probably being neurotic. After twenty minutes, it’s time for dose three and G is refusing it, which is annoying. Of course she’s refusing it, because sensations are occurring in her mouth and throat that she’s too young to articulate, and soon enough a tidal wave of vomit splats us all and she is covered top to toe in hives. She’s given an antihistamine and we’re told to settle in for a period of observation. Now dressed only in a nappy and a hospital gown with rainbows on, she does a poo. I go to change her and see that a new red rash has covered the top half of her body, almost as though it’s tracking the 0.5g of sesame’s journey through her digestive system.

I ask for the consultant to come and see her, and stand her up for his inspection. He is lovely, but visibly alarmed and horribly sorry. G’s test results (pinpricks and bloods) were not in line with this reaction. He holds his chin in his hand and shakes his head, muttering, ‘Only 0.5g … But she’s not allergic … No ... She had a small pinprick ... It was just the first dose … This shouldn’t happen’. Janet, not a zombie, an angel, says, ‘But it has happened’. And after a while, sombrely, he concedes: ‘This child is allergic to sesame.’

9.

‘I tried the hummus, mama!’ comes a cheery shout from another room. Fear not, it’s Z, the big one, not allergic to sesame, just unsure about dips as a concept. The neighbours have invited us for Christmas drinks and I rush to the table to check G hasn’t had any. A vision of all the party buffets ahead of us stretches before me. I think about the double-page spread in my first book, Carbs – an abundant spectacle featuring lime pickle cheese straws, corn nachos, loaded potato skins, cocktails with umbrellas and stripy paper bags of sesame snap popcorn spilling across the table. Now it’s giving anaphylaxis.

10.

G is two and has recently started sitting still to watch TV for brief periods which means I can do some emails while I make dinner, for a treat. An email comes in from an organisation that provides care for my children.

REMINDER: WE ARE NUT FREE

This is a gentle reminder that we aim to keep a nut-free environment. This applies to all snacks. Children who suffer from nut allergies can develop a severe, potentially life-threatening allergic reaction.

Recently, we have noticed some children bringing in sandwiches made with seeded type breads, which fall under the same category.

I start to sweat and my breathing is erratic. I’m going to be quite specific about why. As I mentioned earlier, there are fourteen allergens recognised in the UK as the most common ingredients to cause allergic reactions. Here they are, in bold as you find them on ingredient labels: celery, cereals containing gluten, crustaceans, eggs, fish, lupin, milk, molluscs, mustard, peanuts, sesame, soybeans, sulphur dioxide and sulphites and tree nuts.

The most common cause of fatal anaphylaxis in school-age children is cow’s milk, not nuts. None of the allergy charities recommend nut bans ‘because they are very difficult to enforce and can lead to a false sense of security’ (Anaphylaxis UK) – the false sense of security is illustrated beautifully in the email by the words ‘aim to keep’. The bit about ‘seeded type’ breads falling under ‘the same category’ is scary to me in its vagueness. What constitutes a seeded type bread? A linseed loaf or a burger bun? Both? Are seeds banned then? Which ones? Where might parents find them? Sesame seeds are slippery little bastards, often hidden in plain sight, and parents of non-allergic children have no reason to keep tabs on them.

My brain churns through all of the above and more. And then I baste the chicken, while Wallace and Gromit eat Wensleydale in the background. G approaches the counter in that antsy, nibbly pre-dinner mood. She picks up an oatcake: Got egg in it, mama?

11.

There’s nothing in the fridge. Rich is wondering what he can cobble together in the next hour or so – something nuggety or peanut buttery. He says, Imagine if we could give them both an omelette? Or macaroni cheese? I did always imagine my kids would eat a lot of macaroni cheese. I think this is the bit people think must be hard. This is the bit I hardly ever think about.

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This essay is part of our supplement Vittles Kids and is best read on our website here. To read the rest of the series, please click below:

The things I cook for work...and what my children actually eat, by Rukmini Iyer
Scam Patrol!, by Tim Anderson
'You need to make less pasta and more rice', by Ishita DasGupta
Rukmini Iyer's Magical Children's Party Recipes, by Rukmini Iyer
The Vittles Kids London Restaurant Guide, by various.

A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

The illustrator of this piece, Lizzy Stewart, is selling Giclee prints of the illustration below with all profits going to The Sameer Project. You can pre-order here and they'll be sent out in late August.

Order Print

When I think of a magical children’s party, I always think of the midsummer gathering in Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s World. In the novel, the party is in a beautifully decorated garden with paper lanterns and streamers hanging from the trees, under which there’s a long, linen-covered table laden with homemade bread, chicken, and salads. For pudding, there are raisin buns, layer cake, Danish pastry, and chocolate cake. The birthday cake is a tower of fifteen almond cake rings, one for each of Sophie’s fifteen years. It’s an idyllic setup, with flowers in bloom and – in my mind – golden evening light.

In reality, I’m mother to a three-year old and a baby. In my experience, all the under-five crowd wants are balloons to chuck at each other, unrestricted access to crisps, and a slice of birthday cake. They’ll feed unwanted sandwiches to the dog, leave cucumber sticks mashed into hummus like stubbed-out cigarettes, and conduct pitched battles over inflatable unicorns.

Here’s what else I’ve learned from the last few years of hosting (real) children’s parties:

• yelling ‘There’s pizza!’ will get fifteen under-fives sitting at a mini-table in seconds (whether they’ll stay there is debatable)

• you cannot buy too many strawberries (ditto watermelon)

• homemade cupcakes or butter biscuits, iced or uniced, are a good shout after pizza and before The Cake

• pink wafers carry nostalgia value for adults but hold no value for under-fives, but Party Rings go down just as well now as they did in the 1990s.

By far the most important thing I’ve learned is that there’s absolutely no point giving yourself a nervous breakdown over the catering the day before the party (been there). Although I’m providing recipes for four different types of party food here – some of which can double up as activities for the kids – making just one or two is more than enough. Whatever you choose to make, delegate as much as you can to friends and/or family, and appoint someone to take your kids to the park so you can party-prep in peace.

The Menu

• Cheddar and rosemary cheese stars (vegetarian, nut free)

• Pick-your-own-herb pizzas (vegetarian/vegan, nut free)

• Lavender honey gingerbread men (egg free, nut free, easily veganised)

• Coconut strawberry cupcakes (egg free, nut free, easily veganised and made gluten-free)

Read more

A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

Simply to exist in our unfettered free-market society is to be scammed, all the time, every day. We have to pay for water, which, famously, falls freely from mountaintops and the sky. If you’re a parent, you’re doubly scammed, because our kids constantly compel us to buy stuff that we know is a rip-off. Too often, by the time it occurs to me that I might be getting conned, it’s too late and I’ve already bought the thing. So, to try and become less of a chump, I’m investigating four suspicious phenomena in the world of kids’ food, to answer that nagging question: is this a scam?

CASE NO. 1: FRUIT SHOOTS

Allegations : Compared with squash in other formats, they’re a tremendous waste of money and plastic. And do they even contain fruit?

Imagine, if you will, a place called ‘Fruit Shoot Land ’. This is the kind of whimsical, abstract prompt that market researchers use in surveys and focus groups to understand how customers feel about their brands. When I asked my daughter what would be in Fruit Shoot Land, she answered ‘Fruit Shoots ’, which is correct, but weirdly, the drink itself didn’t even occur to me. I pictured bountiful orchards, birdsong on the breeze and children frolicking in sunlit uplands. And in the distance, an ominous plume of toxic smoke, from a burning landfill of plastic bottles and money.

Fruit Shoots are literally just squash, repackaged in small, child-friendly plastic squeeze bottles with instantly recognisable (and frequently imitated) labels bearing the colours of the fruit they represent: deep purple for blackcurrant, orange for, um, orange. They have a slightly goofy look to them that makes me think of 1990s ska bands. They’re fun – but they’re also way more expensive than just reconstituting the squash yourself. A 24-pack of Fruit Shoots costs about £7, so that’s 29p per serving, compared to around 5p per serving if you buy a bottle of double-strength Robinson’s. The price difference is far greater if you buy a Fruit Shoot at a cafe , where the price is usually more than £1. Plus, they produce a lot more plastic to contend with. (Recycling plastic is a diabolical, convoluted scam in and of itself.) But I keep buying them. Somehow, they’re a treat.

Kate Harvey, a psychologist in the University of Reading’s Kids’ Food Choices research group, thinks that the packaging is central to why Fruit Shoots are so irresistible – the bottle itself gives kids a feeling of autonomy. ‘Their size is perfect for a child,’ she notes, ‘and it’s more exciting for kids to have a little sucky thing that you can shut and open and chew, rather than just a little juice box with a straw.’

There’s a sucker born every minute – literally. The sucking reflex is powerful and innate, and remains a comfort well into childhood (see also: dummies, thumbs, pouches, etc ). Sucking on the nozzle of a Fruit Shoot could provide an additional layer of happiness to the already awesome experience of drinking squash.

But perhaps the most important reason why Fruit Shoots have such powerful appeal is that we give them that power. Tamara Vos, a mother of three and food stylist who has worked on numerous projects aimed at parents and kids, typically buys Fruit Shoots only for special occasions, like birthdays, or trips to the park on hot, sunny days. ‘But I don’t know how good that is,’ she says, ‘because then the kids see them as this incredible, unattainable thing.’ Setting Fruit Shoots aside for special days makes them almost as exciting as sweets or ice cream: the stuff of parties and playgrounds. Flipping the cap off a Fruit Shoot is the kids’ equivalent of popping a cork.

This is a power that boring old squash, made at home and carried with you in a water bottle – probably a little more dilute than Fruit Shoots, and tasting faintly of detergent – simply cannot possess.

VERDICT: NOT A SCAM. Sure, they’re poor value for money and bad for the environment. But they also absolutely serve their intended purpose.

CASE NO. 2: ANYTHING WITH A BEAR ON IT

Allegations : Food packaging with a cartoon bear on it is clearly aimed at children, and therefore inherently sus. What lies do those cheery faces conceal?

Haribo. Pom-Bears. Yoyos and Paws. My Favourite Bear. Barny. Bimbo. Hello Panda. Bears, everywhere! They may appear cute and cuddly, but remember: bears are ruthless predators.

The use of any cute animal characters on food packaging is controversial, to say the least. They’re a perennial target of Bite Back, a youth-fronted activist group that challenges the overwhelming presence of junk food advertising aimed at kids. Henry Makiwa, Bite Back’s head of communications, describes this presence as a ‘constant wallpaper’ and ‘an onslaught on the streets ’. Reading Bite Back’s research and listening to Makiwa rattle off the countless ways kids are exposed to advertising – on buses, billboards, Spotify and Instagram, to name a few – makes me realise these ads are so omnipresent that they may as well be broadcast directly into our dreams.

Most people would agree that advertising aimed at kids is problematic, but there isn’t much of a consensus on what specifically should be challenged. Case in point: Pom-Bears v Haribo. Both of them feature a smiling, rotund yellow bear on their label, but only Pom-Bears have run afoul of concerned consumers. They were named in a 2008 report by Which? on junk food targeted at children, and again in a 2021 ruling by the UK Advertising Standards Authority (ASA). Meanwhile, the Haribo bear runs free, with near-total impunity.

I emailed the ASA to ask them about why regulation regarding cute characters seems so inconsistent, and their response only made me more confused. They clarified that advertising using popular characters to promote junk food to kids is not allowed, citing rulings against a Swizzels ad featuring Scooby Doo, and a Cheestrings ad featuring Garfield – but the wacky Cheestrings mascot himself is OK. They also said they don’t regulate packaging, which is odd, because packaging is just advertising at point-blank range. In his book Ultra-Processed People, UPF cop Chris van Tulleken specifically calls out the Coco Pops monkey, but in the eyes of the law, that monkey is innocent.

How these products are apprehended is a matter of cultural common sense and personal perception. Haribo make few claims to be anything other than a sugary treat, so nobody thinks the Haribo bear is a threat. Pom-Bears do make some tilts at healthiness by proclaiming that they’re free from gluten and artificial colours or flavours. Personally, I have a lot more ire for Yoyos and Paws, the fruit leather products sold by Bear. Only 1% of strawberry Yoyos, for example, is actually strawberry; the rest is a mulch of apples and pears. Yoyos are spirals of deceit.

These days, industry bodies like the Food and Drink Federation have realised they have an image problem, and while they remain stubbornly opposed to meaningful change, they have learned to adjust their tone accordingly. But back in 2008, when the Which? report was published, they were far more brazen and unapologetic, claiming that cartoon characters bring ‘fun’ and ‘colour’ to supermarket shelves.

I have to admit, they have a point. What would the endgame of food label regulation look like? Should Pom-Bears and Haribo be packaged like cigarettes, in unappetising diarrhoea-brown cartons with macabre photos of body parts affected by metabolic syndrome? We probably don’t want to go there. But surely we do want brands to be upfront about what their products are made from, especially when they position themselves as healthy or natural. At least Tangfastics‘ main claim is simply that ‘Kids and adults love it so’. No scam detected.

VERDICT: SOMETIMES A SCAM. None of these bears are acting in your best interests, but at least the Haribo bear will give you exactly what you’ve bargained for.

CASE NO. 3: ‘VEGGIE’ SNACKS

Allegations : They contain insufficient veggies and can result in tooth decay, vomiting at the sight of real food, and developmental delays.

Kids’ snacks with ‘veggie’ in their names often contain negligible amounts of actual veggies. I buy a particular brand of pesto-flavoured veggie cakes, because they’re amenable to my son’s allergies and they feel healthier than conventional crisps or crackers. They’re 76% lentils, which seems pretty good. But are lentils even veggies? And more to the point, are they still nutritious after they’ve been puffed, pressed and powdered with deliciously salty pesto seasoning?

They seem wholesome, but perhaps only in comparison with other veggie straw products from the kids' aisle, which are mostly extruded potato and rice flour or similar starches. I asked Harvey if snacks like these might at least have some redeeming value by encouraging self-feeding (as they claim), or by getting kids on board with the flavour or even the concept of vegetables. ‘They’re probably not doing them much harm,’ she says, ‘but it absolutely won’t familiarise children with vegetables, which is ultimately what you want.’

Harvey points out that veggie straws and things like baby food pouches differ from the other products discussed in that they’re designed to appeal to parents, rather than kids. Their packaging is more subdued, with lots of greens and oranges: an ‘eat the rainbow’ palette to convey a sense of earthy goodness. But the disparity between the wholesome image of these products and their actual nutritional value has come under increased scrutiny, prompting Bee Wilson to ask in the Guardian: ‘Are toddler snacks one of the great food scandals of our time?’

This ongoing ‘scandal’ has made many parents feel pretty freaked out about pre-packaged food for babies and toddlers. Wilson’s article, which became something of a flashpoint in the baby snack discourse, claims (without evidence, mind) that ‘these snacks – organic or not – are one of the reasons that many infants have not learned to chew properly ’. Wilson reported that one of her primary informants, a veteran nursery manager, told her that ‘there has been a “massive increase” in toddlers with tooth decay, as well as a rise in the number of children reaching the age of three who are more or less nonverbal. She attributes this speech delay to the fact that the skills and muscles needed for chewing are related to those needed for speech.’

Never mind the implosion of the NHS and worsening social determinants of health in an age of increasing wealth inequality – that couldn’t be what’s exacerbating developmental and dental problems among children. No, the reason your kids have cavities and are struggling to talk is because you gave them too many melty sticks. Shame on you!

Clearly, the article touched a nerve, and it has prompted rebuttals arguing for a more holistic understanding of why children’s health may be faltering, and that parents shouldn’t be tasked with personally correcting for huge systemic problems. Nutritionist Laura Thomas points out that ‘accounts of a nefarious food system, however carefully constructed to avoid blaming individuals, virtually always hinge on changing individual behaviour ’. She adds that this pressure hits poorer mothers particularly hard, as they’re already more affected by classist and racist judgments about their ability to parent.

I won’t defend veggie straws outright, because I do think they’re a scam, and it makes me feel like a shill for the food industry. They’re not a substitute for actual vegetables, and they shouldn’t be presented as such. But I will say that every child I know who ate veggie straws as a baby – which is all of them – have wound up with totally different, individualised food preferences and eating behaviours as they’ve grown up. As Laura Thomas put it, ‘You can do everything by the book and still have a child who’d rather mainline Biscoff spread than sweet potatoes.’

VERDICT: DOUBLE SCAM. The snacks themselves are definitely a scam – but so is the moral panic about them.

CASE NO. 4: HOME-COOKED MEALS

Allegations : Home-cooked meals are positioned as the gold standard for familial harmony, nutrition and cultural preservation … but is it really that simple ?

With convenience come hidden costs and unintended consequences – but convenience itself isn’t a scam. In fact, convenience is a virtue. Convenience frees up time for, you know, life. Which brings us to one of the most insidious scams of all: home-cooked meals.

I am, of course, absolutely in favour of home cooking. Meals prepared and enjoyed at home can be nutritionally sound, socially nurturing and reassuring to both kids and parents, because we can see exactly what’s in them. But the fact that family mealtimes are often anything but happy, warm and cosy is well documented. As Harvey explains, ‘The primary goal that parents have in their heads when planning a meal is to avoid conflict.’ This rings very true. I also use home-cooked meals to ease the pain of conflicts past, as a peace offering or an act of penance, seeking absolution for parental sins of wrath and pride: buttery, garlicky prawn pasta after losing my shit during a struggle on the changing table, or a simple snack plate of fruit, carrots, ham and crackers upon realising that I was the asshole in an altercation with my daughter.

But these edible atonements don’t always work, and there are few things more demoralising than making something you’re so sure your kids will like, only for them to contort their face into an exaggerated grimace and say those four dreadful words: ‘I don’t like this.’ But last week you loved miso soup – and now you’re literally throwing it on the floor?! WTF. Home cooking is a thankless, Sisyphean task – and it’s unpaid labour.

As Laura Thomas writes, capitalism is ‘contingent on the gendered exploitation of unpaid and undervalued care work … producing purées from a bag of sweet potatoes is only cheaper than a pouch because we have erased the labour that goes into producing it ’. If we really want to give parents (read: mothers) the freedom and flexibility to make their own sweet potato purée, we need an economic system that allows for it – something like a universal basic income (as a start).

One could argue that home cooking also has value beyond nutrition and the labour that goes into it, and many of us put a lot of faith in the sociocultural significance of cooking and its ability to form intergenerational bonds. But love and affection aren’t always conveyed through homemade food – and neither is culture itself.

Shaan Mahrotri, a food industry friend who also handles the home cooking, told me of his frustrations that his daughters are just not into the Indian food he grew up eating. Dal in particular is a sore spot. ‘We’re brown,’ Mahrotri says, exasperated. ‘This is supposed to be in your DNA!’ Vos, who spent her early years in Kyoto, tells a similar story of food culture interrupted; her Japanese mother is appalled by her grandchildren’s food preferences here in the UK, which are very different from what children are expected to enjoy in Japan. ‘The nurseries there are hell-bent on giving very balanced meals,’ Vos explains; an appreciation for a wide variety of whole foods is instilled at an early age, reinforced by a kind of positive peer pressure among the kids themselves.

Food is culture, but culture doesn’t follow a neat, linear path from the kitchen to the table. It isn’t just whatever mama bird regurgitates for us. We’re more like filter-feeders, taking in a bit of everything that floats our way. Sometimes we get a parasite, sometimes we get a pearl. But mostly we just get a lot of random crap that we have to sift through. As parents, all we can do is help with the sifting.

Of course, home cooking can influence our kids’ food choices, but that’s probably more about how much time we spend at the table, not how much time we spend in the kitchen.

But that’s the thing: we just don’t have enough time. We’re all too busy, sprinting eternally on the hamster wheel of capitalism – which is, of course, the biggest scam of all.

VERDICT: SORT OF A SCAM. Home-cooked meals aren’t necessarily a scam – but the expectations that surround them are.

• Tamara Vos is a colleague of the author and one of Vittles’ resident recipe testers.

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This essay is part of our supplement Vittles Kids and is best read on our website here. To read the rest of the series, please click below:

‘That must be hard’, by Laura Goodman
The things I cook for work...and what my children actually eat, by Rukmini Iyer
'You need to make less pasta and more rice', by Ishita DasGupta
Rukmini Iyer's Magical Children's Party Recipes, by Rukmini Iyer
The Vittles Kids London Restaurant Guide, by various.

Subscribe now

A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

Until my daughter was able to speak, I was often mistaken for a childminder or nanny. On one occasion at our local park, a woman went as far as pressing a business card into my hand – mentioning competitive rates, impressed with my attitude and care. In that moment, like a neap tide exposing the rusted hull of a long-sunk wreck, issues about culture and identity that I thought I’d resolved resurfaced. Parenthood, it would seem, has a habit of doing this sort of thing.

My household is mixed-race: me, Indian/British Indian; my husband, white British, as the tick boxes for ethnicity data dictate. Our daughter, I’m often told, has my face, but her hair is closer in colour to her father’s, her eyes hazel, her skin the peachy pink tones of a rambling rose rather than the sandalwood and red earth of mine. While I knew her journey with identity and belonging would be different, what I hadn’t accounted for was how easily part of her heritage might be disregarded.

Mixed-race families like ours are nothing new, of course, and according to census data from the Office of National Statistics, mixed-race partnerships and those who identify as mixed-race are slowly growing across England and Wales. This in itself provokes a mixture of reactions, from pearl-clutching comments about racial purity and the dilution of culture to the fetishisation of mixed-race individuals, who are often held up as a sign of racial ‘tolerance’ and a bridge between communities.

Being the parent of a mixed-race child, I’ve tried to find out more about mixed-race experiences, and am grateful for the generosity of those who’ve been candid about sharing their journeys. A common thread is how people’s experiences can be so different, depending on how they are racialised and perceived by society, no matter how they themselves may identify. In her book Brit(ish): On Race, Identity and Belonging, Afua Hirsch writes, ‘My identity started from a place of feeling ‘other’ and alien, it evolved in conditions of prejudice and unfairness, and then grew and blossomed into something that I cherish.’ What I hope for my own daughter is that we can lay the foundations that help her bloom.

As a child of immigrants, straddling two distinct cultures – British and Indian (more specifically, Bengali) – it took time for me to understand where I belonged. Code switching was inevitable, the tension most stark after spending time with other diaspora families at the regular weekend functions held in each other’s homes.

Helping my mum in the kitchen when it was our turn to host is how I learnt to cook. During this periodic mass catering, I worked my way up from chopping, mashing and pot-watching to shaping, rolling, stuffing, crumbing and, the final boss level, applying heat and cooking things. There were no weights or measures – except, on occasion, a chipped mug that had come with an Easter egg or from a petrol station.

While there is more to understanding one’s heritage than food alone, it is an accessible place to begin. In West Bengal, the recipes we cook also carry stories – of the land, trade, invasions and colonisation; moulded and shaped by many hands. So when it comes to my daughter, it is food I turn to, in the hope it may create a connection across generations and continents. Having moved away from the community I grew up in, it falls to me to forge the link.

Sometimes the enormity of this fills me with panic, especially as my elders pass on and my ties to India loosen. I take up the mantle imperfectly, stumbling over words that used to fall from my tongue with ease. I think of my Dida (maternal grandmother) who, married off at sixteen, made many sacrifices to try and free my mother and me from the unacknowledged labour of domesticity she often experienced. Now, as I seek comfort in the rituals and practices through which she was judged and defined, I wonder what she would’ve thought.

As new parents, advice around weaning babies can become overwhelming. Many swear by Annabel Karmel, while others push a burgeoning list of blogs and curated Instagram accounts. Judgement never seems far away, with a clean-eating-coded spectre lingering near the plastic-free, stick-and-stay food tray. In the end, I invest in a crinkle cutter and opt for baby-led weaning, knowing I’ll have little time to batch-prepare purées, reluctant to make meals separate to our own (salt-free, of course).

When a baby reaches six months there is the Hindu Bengali tradition of Mukhe Bhaat, or Annaprahsan, too – the celebration of a child eating their first solid food. Although we can’t perform an official ceremony, we mark it ourselves by feeding our daughter payesh – rice cooked in thickened milk, without added sugar and flavoured with cardamom. In Bengal, rice is such an important crop, celebrated and revered, it feels right that this is her first food.

As she grows older, I am keen to introduce aromatics and spices into my daughter’s meals, especially since outside the home, in childcare settings and at school, plainer choices like tomato pasta, flatbread pizza, meatballs, and roast chicken with mash and gravy rule the menu. At home, I cannot help but add a bulb of garlic to my tomato sauce; tender herbs, fennel and nutmeg to meatballs; masala butter, generously slathered under chicken skin before roasting. Although this was the case even prior to her arrival.

It takes time for me to realise part of my drive to introduce flavour and spice is rooted in the fear my daughter may reject Indian food. When my husband finds me crying in the kitchen after she refuses a bowl of aubergine bhorta (I have equated this to her wanting to deny part of her heritage and, in turn, me), he gently tells me to take some time out. In retrospect, I remind myself of the many flavours and textures I disliked as a child and how, in adulthood, these are elements I now savour.

Changing tack, I try to make things more fun, getting her to smell and taste ingredients, involving her in cooking. We make lutchi, mirroring her pre-school play, using andaj for the proportions of flour, ghee, and water, tweaking them to create a soft, pliable dough. She cooks them with me, rolling abstract shapes which puff beautifully in the korahi; some catch and become golden. Not the perfectly round discs, as pale as the moon, that the paragon of Bengali womanhood would dictate, but they taste delightfully unburdened when eaten with our potato thorkari.

During lockdown, when our worlds contract, cooking together becomes even more important. We make maacher chop, my daughter now five, going in with both hands, mashing potatoes and tinned tuna before grating in ginger and adding spices. I tell her stories about my childhood, her family and India, while we shape the mixture into cylinders. I show her how to coat the chop with beaten egg using one hand, covering it with breadcrumbs using the other, but she still ends up with breaded fingers. I fry the chops; then, before they have cooled fully, she dips them into homemade tamarind and date chutney, enjoying that sweet and sour taste for the first time.

To find out what other families do, I hop onto a Zoom call with MiMi Aye, writer and editor, whose family moved to the UK from Myanmar – although, MiMi explains, she prefers to use the name Burma. She shares two children – aged nine and twelve, also joining us – with her husband, who is white British. During the week, MiMi’s parents support her with childcare, so the children are familiar with speaking Burmese, as well as regularly eating regional dishes from Mandalay.

MiMi explains how these foods can be challenging for young children: the vegetables cut into varying shapes, stir-fried and served with crunch and bite; dishes sprinkled with chopped raw onions or sliced garlic. Many preparations also involve spice and a level of heat, which she and her mother tone down, focusing on a balance of sweet, warming flavours that are comforting. ‘Pwa Pwa [grandma] makes chicken nuggets and hash browns,’ Z, MiMi’s nine-year-old, interjects. ‘I love chicken nuggets and hash browns.’ MiMi laughs and explains that, even when Western-style foods are on the table, her mother adds flourishes in the form of side dishes, like braised red kidney beans topped with fried ginger and garlic, or lightly sautéed sweetcorn with wedges of fried onion.

MiMi tries to introduce her children to a range of foods, not necessarily sticking to things they like. She tells me her eldest is better with textures and crunch, while her youngest is better with spice. Her children tell me how proud they are of their Burmese heritage and that they love learning more about it. They look forward to cultural events, like Thingyan – Burmese New Year – where food is an important anchor. ‘We made mont lone yay paw this Thingyan. They were so delicious and fun,’ says twelve-year-old W. These glutinous rice dumplings are served warm, so their jaggery filling is molten. In Burma, those celebrating make dumplings together, sneaking a Bird’s Eye chilli inside every tenth one – an omen for the year to come.

I ask MiMi whether she shares my anxieties about introducing certain classic dishes and flavour profiles – for example, the Burmese delicacy Lahpet Thoke, an astringent and savoury salad made with fermented tea leaves. ‘No, not really. I just want them to eat Burmese food, in whatever form that is.’

I also speak to Sharmaine Lovegrove, founder of Dialogue Books. Now based in Berlin, Sharmaine was born and brought up in South London, her family with generational roots in Treasure Beach, Jamaica. She has three children, a son aged thirteen and twin girls aged three. Sharmaine has a blended family; she lives with her German partner and co-parents with her children’s father, who is white British and also based in Berlin. Sharmaine’s focus is to ensure her children can navigate ties across three different countries, and food plays a key role; at home they eat a mixture of British and Jamaican dishes.

Since moving to Germany, however, Sharmaine has had to adjust to how little knowledge there is of Jamaican culture and cuisine, a stark contrast to where she grew up. ‘There really is no link or understanding of my culture. So, everything that I do, especially when it comes to my kids, must be really intentional.’ The lack of access to Jamaican ingredients limits what she can offer regularly. To get round this, she heads to Brixton every time she’s in London to stock up on spice rubs, pepper mix and Encona hot sauce. On her yearly trips to Jamaica, pimento leaves and cho-cho often make their way back. ‘You know, there is a joke amongst my family,’ she says, laughing. ‘I’m Black-British, third generation, deep within my culture. Now I’m moving like my grandmother had to, bringing back supplies in my suitcase to recreate that comfort and sense of home.’

While brown stew chicken and rice have become a weekday staple, Sharmaine says there are certain dishes she can’t cook often as they’re difficult to make on a small scale. Instead, she hosts regular gatherings with friends and chosen family, to ‘get to the bottom of the pot,’ encouraging the kids to try unfamiliar foods when they see those around them connecting and enjoying.

How do her children feel about their identity? ‘The girls are still very young, but they notice differences and understand their mother is Black and their father white. My son feels happy and secure in his skin.’ Sharmaine pauses for a moment. ‘I’m always telling them stories about their heritage, their culture, their history. We celebrate differences and how it makes people special. My kids know they are cherished, they are loved.’

I ask my daughter, now ten, how she feels about her identity. ‘Proud. I feel proud to be Indian and British. It’s nice to be both.’ It feels quite normal for her, she says, rattling off the names of other children from mixed-race families in her year group – around 12% (the number of the population across England and Wales identifying as mixed-race is 2.9%). ‘Sometimes I do ask my brain whether I really belong with my Indian family, and I actually think I do. Especially since we visited Kolkata. I feel like I understand so much more.’

I ask her about Indian food. ‘I love it, except when there’s too much chilli.’ She loves dal, any dal, especially with roti, then lists various mishti (Bengali sweets) – mihidana, chandrapuli and the fudgy head of mishti doi, eaten with lutchi. She likes fish fry, chicken rezala, maacher jhol and kasha mangsho. ‘What I really love is rice. Rice with everything,’ she says smiling. ‘You need to make less pasta and more rice.’

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This essay is part of our supplement Vittles Kids and is best read on our website here. To read the rest of the series, please click below:

‘That must be hard’, by Laura Goodman
The things I cook for work...and what my children actually eat, by Rukmini Iyer
Scam Patrol!, by Tim Anderson
Rukmini Iyer's Magical Children's Party Recipes, by Rukmini Iyer
The Vittles Kids London Restaurant Guide, by various.

Subscribe now

A note from all of us at Vittles: it is impossible right now to think about the subject of food and children without also thinking about the forced starvation of children and adults in Gaza, as part of Israel’s ongoing genocide. There are many individual projects you can donate to, and we would encourage you to donate freely to those you know. The Sameer Project is currently raising funds for tents, food and water in north and south Gaza and you can donate via the links below.

South Gaza donations

North Gaza donations

This picture was taken for my latest cookbook. How lovely, you might think, a little child eating a bit of toddler muffin. But is she eating a toddler muffin? Or any of the food in her bowl? No. She is not. She’s reaching for a cube of cheese in my hand – I had a plentiful supply out of shot. Bribery, ladies and gentleman, so she’d pose with a plate of food. The curtain drops! Chef’s child eats … nothing. Does buttered pasta count?

As the children of a working food writer, the girls are surrounded by fresh food. They grow their own vegetables in little pots, ask me to buy raspberry canes and blueberry bushes, and last week, perhaps anticipating her future as a chef patron, Alba threw a toy saucepan at her sister. So far, so promising. On the downside, it’s uniquely painful when they don’t eat any of the fresh food I cook for them, fall on packets of Pom- Bears at parties like tiny savages, and respond to the information that they’re allowed only one Peppa Pig vitamin gummy per day by eating just one bean, one pea, and one piece of pasta for dinner. ‘I’m only allowed one of these per day too, Mummy.’ Alba is three. It’s even more painful that she had tricked me into thinking she was a fantastic eater for her first 18 months.

During my first maternity leave I read Kitchens of the Great Midwest by J Ryan Stradal (a nice antidote to all the Jilly Cooper and Philippa Gregory ). In the novel, the main character’s father is a chef who plans elaborate dinners to develop his newborn daughter’s palate, and – like a fool – I was inspired. I made Alba’s first purée from garden produce: I harvested and podded peas, picked fresh Russian tarragon (not too much, I’m not a monster) and sautéed the peas and herbs in butter before blitzing them with crème fraîche, seasoning it with a little lemon juice in lieu of salt. Did I pass the mush through a chinois? Why yes, I did! Did I make that much effort over an infant meal ever again? I did not. A week later, with my kitchen covered in splotches of saffron risotto and unidentifiable blobs that even the dog wouldn’t eat, I realised why it’s only fictional characters who attempt Michelin-style meals for babies. The mess – the goddamn, unholy, unhinged level of mess in feeding a creature just over two feet long! The chinois went back into the cupboard.

I turned instead to the books that people have assured me saved their sanity through baby-lead weaning – the Roasting Tin series. (I have the entire eight-book set, as I wrote them.) I made one-tin Roasting Tin meals for all of us without salt, mashed a portion (my life’s work, destroyed in a blender!), salted the rest, and dished it up to husband and baby. One-tin oven risotto, one-pan chickpea curry and roasted tomato orzo were received with appetite. All-in-one berry ricotta pancakes with lemon butter, three-bean chilli, harissa-spiked pasta and kimchi fried rice disappeared. Crispy tofu with peanut dipping sauce and miso butter noodles with tomatoes and spring onions not only became weekly staples, but made it into the next cookbook.

Encouraged, I took Alba on trips to the fishmonger, coming home to make butter-fried John Dory, garlic prawns and meticulously pin-boned fried mackerel. She loved it. The dog loved the ensuing mess so much that the vet put her on a diet.

But! Foolish, foolish smug chef-mother-woman that I am, fate waited, quietly plotting my downfall. She paused, just until Alba turned 18 months old, just as I published a book with a cheerful ‘cooking for children’ section (with the promise that my own child had taste-tested all the recipes), and then hubris hit. Hard. Suddenly, Alba’s food compass flipped – from ‘Yes, more!’ to looks of absolute disgust (tomato pasta), tears (noodles with peanut butter) and screams (porridge for breakfast.) It was a flat-out no to anything with sauce, also a no to the thinnest, crispest buckwheat crêpes (a useful byproduct of dating a Breton before meeting my husband). It was even a no to basmati rice, which was particularly agonising, because basmati rice forms the backbone of my – and now half of her – cultural inheritance.

Anyway, as if leaning towards her solidly Anglo Saxon-Cornish-Irish heritage, overnight Alba’s diet shrank to just buttered toast, buttered broccoli (but only tenderstem, and only the stems), buttered pasta, or indeed, just butter, supplemented with fruit (but only expensive fruit), and chocolate cake at the weekly rounds of children’s birthday parties. I despaired.

Then I produced another child, waited another six months, and watched in astonishment as she – like her sister before her – ate everything on her plate, showing no interest in plain buttered anything. Now, I thought. Now is the time to bring the family meal together, so I’m not cooking three separate meals every night – one for work and one for each child. Peer pressure will surely bring Alba back around to the balanced diet she used to enjoy!

What follows is a snapshot of everything I cooked in a week as a professional food writer, compared with everything my children ate.

Read more