A very specific childhood experience arose from being a “weird-lunchbox kid” growing up in the 90s with a food-conscious mother. It was the sense of palpitating trepidation felt when opening your school lunchbox, knowing that what lay within was going to be seen as “weird” in comparison with the sliced-white-bread-plastic-ham sandwiches, cheesy Wotsits and Club biscuits everyone else was gobbling.
What’s that?” your classmate would ask, their nose wrinkling as they took in yesterday’s veggie curry, crumbling homemade falafel or – my mother’s speciality – a “deconstructed sandwich” of doorstop-thick fresh bread, filling of some kind (often cucumber) and attendant crumbs floating freely in the bag. (Why bother assembling at all?, my father asked once, when you could simply throw in all the elements and shake?)
