Oh, God, I had one of those children.
I didn't mean to create a foodie monster. But I didn't have anywhere to put her in the kitchen other than the countertop as it was so small, so she'd watched and asked questions from when she was tiny and I didn't have a car, so had to take her shopping after work or on days off, after which I'd collapse on the sofa whilst some cooking programme or another was on.
Cost me a bloody fortune, that child. She wasn't just interested in ingredients (and wouldn't eat loads of anything - what she would eat had to be nicely presented and preferably observed throughout the preparation), she was also interested in dictating choosing the perfect little plates and bowls to put the things on/in. We spent lots of money in Japanese shops as a result of that. And she loved trips to Borough Market, Neal's Yard Dairy and the Japan Centre at the weekend so she could look at, try and convince me to buy different things.
Her opinions also extended to paint and decor (she had her own set of F&B, Little Greene and assorted other paint cards when considering how she wanted her room decorated), flower arranging and soft furnishings.
I drew the line at going to a farmers' or flower market at the weekend, as East London by public transport on a Sunday morning would have been an utter pig - I still don't know where she heard about Columbia Road, but she sulked when she found out I had a gig at the Hampton Court Flower Show one year and wouldn't take her out of school to join me.
I think by the age of six she had had critiqued everybody's lunchbox, her grandmother's cooking, the school dinners and was beginning to hurl abuse at the contestants on Masterchef when she wasn't giving cooking tips and recipes to kids at school or telling the TA about how useless they were on TV last night.
(Qualifier: I did try and teach her some tact and diplomacy. I'm not sure I did a great job trying to explain in an age-appropriate manner that the food might not be up to her standards, but it wasn't nice to tell people just how shit it was unless you had a job writing about it for the Telegraph. I think that might have just given her something to aim for, though.)
It would have been a lot easier if I could have got away with just shoving a 69p pizza in the oven with some McCain's oven chips, but her last truly instant meal was some Pedigree Chum mixer from the dog's bowl aged 9 months - and a gallon of Wickes Trade Matt Emulsion would have saved multiple attempts to get the only shade and finish that would do for her room and being led around various shops whilst she inspected the bedding that was acceptable to her.
As a positive, I never had to worry about whether she'd be able to feed herself at University. There were a few 'if I send you a list, can you send me an Ocado delivery?' emails sent to me, however. She did reassure me once that she had saved enough money that she could still go and buy ridiculous clothes and go out with her mates as well as buy all the materials she needed for her course - if I just kept the orders coming every other month - and that being able to cook meant she had loads of friends buying things for her in return for a decent meal, so she wasn't being taken for a ride.
Her father thought it was all insufferable wank and I was being a complete tosser in indulging her. It was never 'oh, we're so middleclass!'. We were council flat scum (as he informed me on many occasions). She just knew what she liked and was not afraid to say it. But this was the 'man' who thought it acceptable to upend a plate of food on the floor because there were two lettuce leaves and a sliced tomato on it instead of more chips and some beans in a restaurant. So he could get to fuck.