To quote Pink Floyd's famous lyrics
"If you don't eat your meat, you cant
have any pudding."
Yeah, that sentence
is banished from my kitchen.
And so it should be.
As a child, these words were set in stone
just like the sword. They were adhered to
as if life itself depended on them. Liver and
peas were the regular offender and always
resulted in a reward of "no pudding for me."
I wasn't being fussy or awkward. I simply
could not stand the texture or strong taste
of the liver and garden peas... I loved garden
peas raw and straight out of the pod, but
cooked and smugly nestled next to the
offending offal. It was as if my parents were
planning my execution.
In reality, it was about nutrition and cost.
But my very young and delicate taste
buds were in the high alert of being
potentially poisoned. No matter how many
times my mother tried to convince me
it "tasted like chicken." I can assure you
that it did not taste like chicken.
Young children biologically have around
10,000 more taste buds than the average
adult. which might explain the sensory
horror of that iron rich, grainy slab of
despair.
Looking back now, I appreciate my parents.
But I run a very different kitchen.
Not because my kids are picky or ungrateful.
Not because I pander to their every whim.
It's because I learned a very valuable lesson.
And it arrived as if it were a scene written
specifically for "The Inbetweeners."
My son had been unwell and had been
prescribed oral antibiotics.
One spoonful.
An almighty gag.
And then...
"Blurghhhh."
Projectile vomit.
Across the kitchen floor.
My own gag reflex was pushed to its
absolute limits on that fateful day.
But beneath the calm and cool exterior
that I was portraying...
a storm of fear was
rising.
Like volcanic bile rising from my gut to my
throat.
My child was unwell. He needed this medicine
to make him better.
But his sensory system was refusing to negotiate.
And I had no idea how I was going to get
the medication into his system.
In hindsight, the signs had always been there.
He had been a sensory eater from a very
young age. Smooth was safe, texture was an
absolute no. Certain tastes and smells
would automatically trigger a meltdown or
food refusal.
But it took that moment in the kitchen for me
to realise that this was not him being overly
fussy or awkward.
This was his body rejecting it.
And that one moment changed my perspective
completely.
Not in how I understood him.
But in how I responded to his needs.
From that day forward, I never again forced
foods that he did not like.
Because it was never just about whether he
liked something.
It was about his sensory tolerance.
With one simple difference.
If his body said no, I listened.
Always calm.
Always reassuring.
If an offending food threatened the whole
meal, it was removed there and then.
No drama.
No theatrics.
No fuss.
And so enter the café kitchen.
Most evenings are calm.
One core ingredient.
Three different meals.
An example of this would be...
One plate of rigatoni with a homemade
tomato sauce.
One homemade gluten-free spaghetti
carbonara.
One classic carbonara.
My Kitchen does not stop there...
There are occasions when my adult children
decide that they are going to rock up with their
7 strong fussy eaters.
You may witness a hob with four pans bubbling.
A steamer with two separate compartments.
Both ninja compartments.
A George foreman sizzling.
A sneaky tray thrown in the oven.
A rogue pot noddle.
A microwave pizza.
And someone shouting service from the hallway.
It's a little extra effort. But it works and
no-one goes to bed hungry.
Most of all no-one gags.
No-one cries at the table.
It may not be Michelin starred.
But I'll take that as a win.
Even if Jamie Oliver is sitting in a corner
somewhere quietly crying over the rogue
pot noodle entrée.
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