Dad, that risotto looks disgusting!

‘Dad that looks disgusting! What is it?’ ‘Risotto.’ That exchange was the straw that broke this camel’s back, along with other gems such as, ‘What is that stuff dad?’ said in reference to a, (rather nice if I say so myself), chicken cacciatore, and, ‘Yuk! Can I just have a piece of apple?’ said after sighting a plate of never-fail spaghetti bolognese.

‘Right,’ I announced, as I sat down to a bowl of the disgusting mushroom risotto, ‘I’m on strike. No more cooking for the next fortnight!’ If I expected an uproar from the children I didn’t get one. I didn’t hear a hooray, but I think I might have heard a ‘Whatever,’ with an implied, ‘Dude,’ from the seven-year old. 

However, when my wife chimed in with a not entirely supportive, ‘So I suppose I’ll be looking after dinner then?’ they did turn and look at me, in the same fashion that one might look at a parent who let’s their three year old play on the road.  Those looks changed to whoops of delight, however, as soon as she said, ‘I’d better head to Tony’s Pies tomorrow then’.  And were soon followed by, ‘Does that mean we can have fish fingers too?’

Just you wait, I thought, we’ll see how you feel after two weeks of tuna pasta, Tony’s chicken pie and more fish fingers than a flock of fast five-fingered flying fish – the seven year old was doing poetry at school. You’ll be begging me to get the wok out, hanging for hokkien noodles, longing for lamb chops and mash.

But I was proved wrong. Like Jamie Oliver and millions of mums (and dads) before me I was forced to grudgingly embrace the fact that most kids don’t want to eat good food. That kids don’t care about food, that my kids will happily starve rather than eat the horrible, disgusting stuff I serve up.

Why is that? What did kids eat before rubbish was packaged as food, doused in sugar and salt and sold at exorbitant prices to time-starved parents? I know that I snaffled my share of baked beans and fish fingers as a kid, but I also struggled through mountains of cauliflower and piles of cabbage too. Didn’t we all? And what about our parents?  Weren’t they both lucky and grateful just to be fed? Wasn’t it so very much harder, but in some ways better, in their day?

My mum tells me tales of receiving an orange as a Christmas present in a post war Britain still ravaged by food shortages. My kids would no more accept an orange for Christmas than they would cabbage at dinner time. When did it change? Can it change back?

Maybe you’re thinking that my kids wouldn’t eat my food because it was horrible, but I think I can safely say that it’s not, - people have paid to eat the muck I cook.  Although, I do consciously bland-up (or down?)  our food with them in mind: I haven’t used pepper in a dish in nearly eight years. Perhaps that’s where I’m going wrong? Maybe they’re hanging out for jalapeno, gagging for garlic or just aching for asafoetida?

The days rolled by, pies were eaten, fish were de-fingered by the dozen and the tuna shelves at the Yarraville IGA were starting to look very empty. Perhaps this will be the day they change, I’d say as every night I’d hit the couch after work instead of the kitchen, but no. I started cooking my own meals, just for me, in the hope that this might sway them.  In the hope I’d hear an, “Oooh, what’s dad eating?’ or an, “Mmm, that smells nice dad,” but I didn’t.

And then, with only one day of the strike to go, and with Green Peace calling for a halt to the sudden and massive increase in tuna fishing in the Southern Ocean, I heard the following words: ‘Mum, when is dad going to start cooking again?” from the seven year old as she tucked into yet another bowl of non-descript pasta. ‘Tomorrow?’ said my significant other, lifting her eyes to me for confirmation. I simply nodded, taking in my stride the little, ‘Yeaay,’ uttered in response by she of the seven years. Making no outward fuss, but glowing inside with evangelical righteousness.

And so the next night, dad hit the kitchen again, straight after work. The sound of peeling was heard, as was the sharpening of knives. ‘What’s that drawer for dad?’ the little ones asked as the vegetable crisper was opened for the first time in a while. Mere minutes later, beautiful plates of tender rump steak, served with seasonal greens and creamy mash, topped with a red wine jus were served to a multiplicity of ,’Ooohs,’ and ‘Aahs,’ followed by, a chorus of, ‘I think I’ll just have an apple, some Weetbix, plain noodles.’

By John Weldon

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This article was first published in the Spring 2009 edition of Australian Family Magazine.