I am the mother from hell, at least when it comes to mealtimes. Not that I’ve always been like that. I’ve done my time of arranging the little darlings’ supper into charming animal shapes, of secreting vegetables in meatballs and whimsically calling broccoli “trees”. And I’ve succumbed many times to baked beans or buttered pasta.
You might think that a food writer would have children who tuck into platefuls of Swiss chard and artichokes with gusto, never mind the more mundane delights of carrots and cauliflower. Can you hear my hollow laughter? Vegetables… Well, let’s just say I was driven to check a seven-year-old Hector for the early symptoms of scurvy.