I like food

 

I like food. I like it enough that one of the shelves in my kitchen has a pronounced bow to it from the weight of cookbooks. I like it enough that Mrs. M gets a panicked look in her eyes whenever I perk up during 'Great British Menu' or 'Masterchef' or God forbid a Heston Blumenthal show (which usually prompts her to preemptively forbid me from buying liquid nitrogen over the internet.)

 

I like it enough that I have bought things in the supermarket, or a farmers' market, or in a restaurant just because I'd never tasted it before. I have a rolling mental list of the best meals I've ever eaten.

 

Before the kids came along I had fantasies of them following in my foodie footsteps – they'll be adventurous eaters, I swore. I'm going to do things a more continental way, giving smaller or puréed portions of proper, grown-up food rather than resorting to chicken nuggets and cartoon spaghetti.

 

I had visions of staying at a gîte while road-tripping through France, the kids tucking into a confit or a platter of farmhouse cheeses and fresh baguettes and cured meats or fresh fish or even gamely trying an oyster. I pictured Sunday mornings happily making banana pancakes in a steamy kitchen with small, enthusiastic assistants.

 

Did I succeed in all this?

 

Let me put it this way – this evening, I rearranged the toppings on a frozen pizza so that one side had almost no sauce or toppings. I have had to wipe sausages clean because I had accidentally left them touch the baked beans – beans that they'd eaten anyway, I might add. I can only serve potatoes if I call them absolutely anything other than potatoes. I made gnocchi the other night and had to insist that they were dumplings and that I have absolutely no idea what the ingredients are.

 

Don't get me wrong – I'm not a complete food snob. My all time favourite thing to eat is fish fingers and chips. I bought – and ate with gusto – that frozen pizza mentioned above. When I finish writing this post I'm not going to have a piece of 85% cocoa dark chocolate and a fine red wine. A Curly Wurly and a cup of tea for me, please.

 

I haven't given up hope, though. B, despite being possibly the pickiest eater in the house (and to be fair to him, who isn't a picky eater at three?) has decided he likes to 'help' in the kitchen – sometimes with my cooking, but more often with Mrs. M's baking.

 

AJ can, with an ever-increasing rate of success, be persuaded into tasting something new, even if it does make me feel like John Cleese's waiter in The Meaning Of Life persuading Mr. Creosote to try a "waffer-thin" mint.

 

The baby meanwhile, will try anything. She's six-months old, has just gotten the beginnings of teeth and has decided that anything anyone else (Mum, Dad, Nana, the cat) is willing to eat, must be worth a try.

 

Long may her adventurous spirit last.

 

John Madden is a freelance designer, writer and dad from Dublin. You can find him on Twitter as @johnmadden78.