Making a meal of it

He got that right. Jane, who went on to win the title, reckoned that it was catering for her four fussy eaters over the years that had sharpened her skills in the kitchen and turned her into more of an inventive cook.

And any mother or father who has struggled to rustle up dishes that will satisfy the various whims of their offspring, whilst also persuading them to swallow something vaguely nutritious, will understand the pressure she’s been under.

A woman who is used to getting tea on the table in staggered sittings as she zooms backwards and forwards between swimming lessons, ballet and football practice has nothing to fear from the time pressures of a professional kitchen.

Jane, who would probably usually be reciting times tables and going over spelling tests in between slapping the next course on the table, surely found the restaurant service test, usually pretty stressful for the amateur cook, slow going. I’m sure I saw her twiddling her thumbs at one point.

And the dishes she was asked to prepare must have been easy peasy compared to what she’s used to. Because on Masterchef, diners seem to simply eat what’s on the menu.

I didn’t see anyone retching and asking for a sick bucket because there were some mushrooms on their plate. Nor did any diners pick out the onions from their meal, one by one, while directing a look of sheer disgust at the chef.

But this is what we parents put up with every day. Is it any wonder we resort to ever desperate measures - from surreptitiously sneaking pureed broccoli into the pasta sauce to hiding peas under the cheese on a pizza - to deceive our children into eating the occasional vegetable?

I find counting tomato ketchup as one of their ‘five a day’ helps relieve the pressure.

Because the demands children put their parents under round the tea table are much more extreme than anything even the fussiest diner or most acerbic restaurant critic could throw at a professional chef.

My youngest always insisted his toast had to have the butter on top of the jam in the morning. And it had to be cut in squares, not triangles.

For years, the only vegetables he ate were in soup, but the soup had to be green. If he detected so much as a hint of another colour, it was rejected.

One son refuses to eat butter, so all his sandwiches have to be kept separate. And if I use a knife that has had butter on it anywhere near his bread that means it’s contaminated and can’t possibly pass his lips.

One of the boys was vegetarian for a few years, during which time I baked a lot of quiches. But then one of his brothers refused to eat eggs. And his best friend, who used to come back for tea a lot, announced that he was a carnivore and couldn’t possibly eat vegetarian food.

Like Jane, I soon became adept at producing a range of creatively presented dishes, side by side, at the drop of a hat. Some without butter, some without eggs, some laid out on the plate to resemble a dinosaur or a clown face with a red tomato nose and spaghetti for hair. Anything to get them to eat.

Masterchef is starting to look a little too easy. Imagine a programme called Parentchef, with five and six year old judges. That really would be tough.

“BUT all my friends have one,” said Albert. Well, I’ve heard that argument before. This time he’s desperate to be allowed to buy the Call of Duty PlayStation game, even though it’s rated a 16 and he’s only 13. I told him that I’d have to think about it. He tried a new line of argument: “It’s only a 16 because of the violence, and I’m fine with violence,” he said, in a misguided attempt to reassure me. When he could see I wasn’t buying that one, he changed tactic. “What if I buy it and you and dad watch it to see if it’s suitable. I know you’ll think it’s OK once you see it,” he said. “But what if it’s not? You can’t bring it back to the shop after you’ve watched it,” I argued. “It’s OK. If you don’t think it’s suitable, I’ll put it to one side until I’m 16.” Now that’s one I haven’t heard before.