How can I make my son eat something other than ketchup?

With a lack of Important Stuff to do, and a lack of imagination on my part, I asked him if he wanted to come and help me make dinner.

“My do it,” he replied as he hasn’t worked out possessive pronouns yet.

So I took him into the kitchen and we set about peeling potatoes. There was something so vulnerable about the way he put his total trust in me. He was devoid of his normal boisterous energy as I put the peeler in his hand. We were careful but whipped through the potatoes like the couple of pros we are.

I put the pan of water down on the floor and let Henry tip the chopped up potatoes in.

“Henry did it,” he said proudly. “Yes chef,” I replied to amuse no one but myself. We then lobbed in the broccoli and Stilton for the soup I was making to use up some leftovers.

Now I’m not one of those parents that boasts about how their precious little darling simply loves fennel cous cous or just adores salmon en croute.

He doesn’t. His favourite food is ketchup. I slaved away making him homemade breaded chicken goujons and Maris Piper triple cooked chips the other day, and all he was interested in was the ketchup.

But, once I’d finished making this soup and it had cooled down, I gave him the wooden spoon and let him taste a little bit.

“Daddy, delicious,” he shouted. As I try to make people like me by cooking for them, I can’t imagine two more beautiful words that could have come out of his mouth.

“Daddy four,” he then said, demanding that I give him four more spoonfuls (which naturally I did).

He never would have been so keen to eat this if I had put it down in his bowl for dinner. The flavours of broccoli and Stilton hadn’t changed, they’re never going to be real vote winners with kids are they? But Henry’s mindset was different. He was invested in what we’d done and wanted to feel pride in his creation.

There’s a passage in a Chekhov short story that I love. A man who has spent ages growing gooseberries delightfully wolfs them down, despite them tasting bitter and disgusting to his guests. As the narrator says, “the illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths”.

Now, I’m not saying my broccoli and Stilton soup is disgusting, it isn’t. But Henry is going through one of those phases with food where he just doesn’t seem hugely interested.

I once said to him “Henry if you eat all your chips you can have a doughnut”.

I didn’t put that on my application for father of the year. In fact, I wonder if supernanny reads this whether she’ll pop over and put me on the naughty step.

Henry’s eating, like so many aspects of his character, doesn’t conform to what other people have told me about parenting. I’ve heard some boast about their children’s sophisticated palettes and some say theirs won’t eat anything but crisps sandwiches.

But sometimes Henry eats well and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he’s happy to go to bed and sometimes he isn’t. He is unfortunately as wildly erratic as his father. So I can’t ever really get too cross with his mood swings. That would be like me looking into the mirror and shouting at it, because I don’t like the way the reflection makes our bathroom look.

But at least I know he enjoys food more if he’s helped cook it.

Readers who submit articles must agree to our terms of use. The content is the sole responsibility of the contributor and is unmoderated. But we will react if anything that breaks the rules comes to our attention. If you wish to complain about this article, contact us here