One afternoon last November, while sitting at the kitchen table, my daughter announced she was a vegetarian – and hasn’t touched a sausage or a chicken nugget since. For her, the decision was very obvious: she didn’t want animals to suffer on her behalf. This wasn’t a surprise to her father or me. After waking, Arya spends 10 minutes every morning in an elaborate ritual akin to a Japanese tea ceremony, bedding in her koalas, teddies and fluffy rabbits for the day before coming down for breakfast. Last year, after hearing that the polar bear’s habitat was in decline, she applied to be on her school’s eco council (and now regularly berates us for not having switched to an electric car). I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that my children eat the food I cook for my Guardian column. The truth is that both my girls (I have a three-year-old too) find the food too complex. Arya, in particular, has always had a sensitive palate. To her credit, she will try new foods, but will then tell me, very frankly, what she hates about them. On trying camembert for the first time, she said: “It smells like a cow did a fart then the fart wrapped around the cheese and stayed there for ever.” I can empathise: growing up, I was nicknamed “chakli”, or “little bird” in Gujarati, because I’d peck at food, rejecting most things. For a time, I would consume only prawns, cornflakes or Heinz tomato soup. But here’s the thing about autonomy and children: it breeds curiosity and so, since turning vegetarian, Arya has eaten more widely than before. |