Multiculture club

Tomorrow is multicultural day at my three-year-old's nursery. We have been asked to dress our little darlings in national costume. I am thinking of shaving his head and putting him in a football shirt. It's either that or a morris dancing get up, and I know which one is more likely to see him beaten up by his fellow preschoolers. 

But it got me to thinking about how times of changed. When I was growing up out in the sticks in the 70s our headmaster arranged a special assembly to greet the first black pupil to attend our school. Looking back that must have worked wonders to make her feel included and inconspicuous, poor girl. 

Now my sons attend London schools where English is just one of many languages spoken and skin colours range from milky white to inky black encompassing every shade in between, which begs the question why they need a special multicultural day, as surely every day in these schools is multicultural day? 

But I suspect that the real motivation behind this day is nothing as high falutin' as learning about other cultures, but more an excuse for a good nosh up. You see we have all been asked to bake a national dish and I fear my good old British Victoria sponge won't stand up to the culinary competition from around the world.  

If the food at my eldest's school fetes is anything to go by we are in for a global smorgasbord of treats of satay and spring rolls, Thai curry and Singapore noodles - a far cry from the weak tea and sunken fairy cakes that sustained the parents at my primary school. So whatever else we learn about multiculturalism tomorrow, one thing I already know is that when it comes to food it's a force for good. 

 

Let them eat cake

When you find yourself eyeing up the cake you are putting into your three-year-old's lunchbox as a viable breakfast option you know things just aren't going your way.

Firstly, you feel guilty for putting such a sinful treat in his packed lunch to start off with, never mind that my childhood was fuelled on Monster Munch, Sherbert Dips and Findus frozen pizzas, I start to feel those maternal twinges of despair if I allow my son so much as white bread for his sandwiches or an indulgent pack of Organix snacks.

But despite such middle class angst I can't help but feel kids are missing out by my demonising the very foods I was addicted to as child. Back in the 70s when I was a young 'un nothing could beat a trip to the sweet shop with is jars filled with glittering treasure of dark purple cough candy twists, with their peculiar aniseed flavour, rough as sandpaper rhubarb and custard lozenges and inky dark Blackjacks that would stay glued to your teeth for hours. A dentist's nightmare, but the highlight of my week.

Secondly, even though the cake is carrot I doubt it would count as one of my five-a-day, unless that would be the five things I tell myself every morning that I will not give in to. Now that's a target I find it easy to meet and by the end of the day I can be pretty sure that I will have hit my daily tally and scoffed the full spectrum of biscuits, cake, chocolate, crisps and wine.

Mind you I will have to break this proud record soon if I am to avoid the embarrassment that accompanied my first son's first day at his school nursery, when one of the kindly teachers asked me when I was due and I had to admit that I wasn't pregnant, just fat. The poor woman couldn't look me in the eye for the rest of the 18 months he was there. As son number two starts there in September I'd better get a wriggle on as the period of grace that allows me to blame my belly on the twins is fast running out.

Come to think of it perhaps it's a good idea I am working hard stopping my sons from following in my footsteps when it comes to my love, love relationship with food. Perhaps I should chase after the three-year-old to wrest that cake out of his lunchbox - it's for his own good after all.