“I’m No Rachel Allen, I’m Not Even an Uncle Ben.” Evanne Ní Chuilinn on When Parent Becomes Personal Chef

It was one of the hardest, most honest, days work I’ve done. 

I’m no Rachel Allen, I’m not even an Uncle Ben. I cook because I have to, I don’t bake, and I have to follow recipies to the letter or I’ll lose my way and have to start again. But today, I made 2 months worth of dinners. Séimí dinners. And I’m wrecked.

Did our parents steam a whole salmon and the mix it with peas, cauliflower, butternut squash and pasta? Did they shred chick fillets or purée mince meat? I doubt it. My dad says he remembers me spitting out a spoonful of turnip, but in our house, if you turned your nose up at food, you could do without. I didn’t make that mistake again. I ate like a horse as a child, still do thank God.

Long gone are those cosy days of breast-feeding. The convenience is something you appreciate only when you’ve stopped. I stopped at 8 weeks, and in truth, could and perhaps should have continued. But I needed some semblance of independence, and I felt like the wee man did too. So the bottle was introduced. Suddenly I could sleep for longer periods at night. Daddy could experience that very special silent appreciation of a hungry baby, and he could quench his son’s thirst for the very first time. 

Sterilisers are not my friend. Thankfully we are closing in on the day when we can stop sterilising bottles. You go around with wrinkly dry hands from all the bottle washing, and then there’s the once weekly panic when you realise that there are no sterilised bottles ready. Or that there are a couple of clean bottles ready but they haven’t been filled with boiling water. So you have to wait for boiled water to cool down, while your baby wails that ear peeling hunger scream for the best part of 20 minutes.

At least now, we are down to three bottles a day, so I can sterilise in the morning, and not have to go near the contraption again until evening. Or if I’m feeling risky, the following day. 

I think the puréeing stage was my favourite. I’ll never forget the time Séimí opened his mouth for his first spoon of puréed carrot as if he had been doing it all his life. His first time in a high chair, he nearly jumped out of it with excitement. But puréed pear and puréed carrot doesn’t last very long as a substantial meal. What I did today is a regular penance now. 

Evanne's little man Séimí is being spoiled with tasty nutritious meals, but the work is taking its toll on the chef!

I think a healthy appetite is a healthy baby, but it is not the easiest scenario to reach. 

I hope not to have a picky toddler, so I’ve been trying to help the wee man develop his taste buds with as many flavours as I can. It worked for my Dad, though I’ve had the decency to add something more interesting to the pot of turnip my 6 month old self spat out! Today, my little man will dine on shredded chicken, with brocolli, peas and sweet potatoe, Mammy style.

 

Chat next week friends,

 

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