If I had been asked to contribute a chapter to Zosia Mamet’s collection of essays about feelings and food, My First Popsicle, I would have written about my occasional sick-days as a child.

My Mum and Nan had a florist shop and if I was sick, I had to go to work with Mum. I would lie at the back of the shop on a plastic banana lounge, watching a tiny black and white TV. If I rallied by lunchtime (and let’s be honest, I mostly did), I would eat potato cakes from the fish and chip shop next door, and spend the afternoon misting the carnations (it was the seventies!) with my Nan’s special water bottle. Truly the best days, and the combined smell of flowers and the fish and chip shop oil is firmly and forever in my memory.

According to Mamet, the editor, the idea for the book came about when she saw a video on social media of a little kid eating a popsicle (icy pole) for the first time –

…the range of emotions that played across his face … was exceptional. It was like watching a brilliant French mime. He hit all the big ones: fear, confusion, dislike, distaste, sadness, joy, jubilation. It was all there. And it was new.

And so came the linking of food and emotions. Mamet acknowledges that the feelings associated with food aren’t always positive, and can be very complicated. The essays from people who had suffered eating disorders demonstrated this. Jordon Roth reflects on eating a single apple a day (slowly) –

These are the secret recipes of the anorexic. Strangely called an eating disorder when its brilliance is that it brings order, rules, control, power to the powerless.

Alas, I wasn’t asked to contribute to this collection but plenty of writers that I admire were, including Mari Andrew, Sloane Crosley, Stephanie Danler, David Sedaris and Leanne Shapton.

Danler describes how her ‘I can’t cook’ life changed when she discovered the transformative power of a shallot vinaigrette; Shapton’s pregnancy craving was Hot Cross Buns; Sedaris discusses what happens when a suburban boy with a narrow palette went on exchange to France; and Crosley describes her experience of pesto during COVID lockdowns.

Mari Andrew’s essay on ‘solitary pizza’ was the standout. I’ve long been a fan of her insightful drawings and writing, and her essay about what constitutes ‘sad’ food versus ‘solitary’ food was an interesting take on what brings us comfort.

Airplane food in all its bizarre temperatures (chilled dinner roll, warm granola bar) is good Solitude Food, especially when accompanied by a sitcom binge among the clouds.

Collections always run the risk of being uneven, and unfortunately My First Popsicle suffers from this (and it wasn’t a case of me being less interested in the author or celebrity that had written the essay, it was the fact that the standard of writing varied markedly). I did enjoy the inclusion of recipes with some of the essays, and the occasional very specific instructions in the method (it’s the mark of a family recipe!). I also learned some fun facts (crown musk melons!); was comforted to know that I’m not the only person who has Apricot Chicken PTSD; and enjoyed glimpses into what families consider ‘normal’ and a ‘treat’. One author described ‘fantasy dinner night’ when he was a child –

…a sporadic occurrence where, as a family, we would go on an impromptu trek to the grocery store just before dinnertime. Each of us got to choose whatever we wanted to eat. It could be lobster, TV dinners, ice cream…

My mum did something similar but she called it ‘children’s salad’ (a fun mix of sweet and savoury on one plate – a slice of ham next to mandarin segments). I realise now that it was served up when there was really only bits and pieces in the fridge but it felt fun to us!

2.5/5

I received my copy of My First Popsicle from the publisher, Icon Books, via NetGalley, in exchange for an honest review.

There were dozens of recipes to choose from in this book but Patti LuPone’s reminiscences about summertime on Long Island and linguine con vongole was quite lovely and similar to my own childhood experience in the sand flats at McCrae on the Mornington Peninsula –

As children, we’d wait for low tide – that distinct, overpowering scent of life and death, muddy waters with creatures just below the surface but at the shoreline – ah!