Food…some eat to live, whereas others like me, live to eat. My love of eating is common knowledge among all who know me. For me, food evokes and creates memories.


Seemingly so, many a fond memory from my childhood has food interwoven into it - gagging on my first oyster off the rocks down at Wilson’s Promontory, the sheer pleasure of gorging on homemade sausage rolls and lank shank and vegie soup on a wintery Saturday after netball and my love of coffee perhaps stemming from my mum allowing us a percolated coffee as a treat when my parents were entertaining, from a fairly young age (not to mention the after dinner mints that my sister and I scavenged for on the table the following morning).


My partner Marty and I were only recently talking about the simple things we loved doing as children that have seemingly become lost over time.  For me, it was a big deal to go and pick up fried rice with my dad on a Saturday night with our saucepan in tow (showing my age here – before the days of takeaway containers – really not such a bad idea) and Marty loved going to the fish and chip shop on a Sunday night in his pj’s with his dad before settling in to watch Walt Disney. Take a moment to recall a fond memory of your childhood – perhaps food is consciously or sub-consciously etched in your memory?


So it is fair to say, I had high hopes for my children, on the food front. Prior to having children of my own, many a friend had complained about their children being fussy eaters. I have to admit; I secretly thought to myself that this would never happen to me (naive, I know!). So one can only imagine my disappointment (understatement) when my daughter turned up her nose at my lovingly prepared fish, lamb and chicken casseroles, instead opting for the tub of yoghurt or meal in a squeezie pack I offered her post casserole, in my delusional paranoia she was going to starve.


In one of my many food epiphanies I have experienced in the past two years, I decided to put my foot down, and ...

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