O
nce upon a time, when I was in my twenties, I sat in a seafood restaurant and watched a child of about six happily tucking into a plate of chicken nuggets. Instead of thinking good for that child, I thought when I have kids they’re not going to eat from a special menu, they’ll just have what I have, whether it’s mussels or curry or lasagne. They’ll grow up enjoying proper, adult food because they’ll never know any different. I know, I know, I was an absolute dose. I was probably wearing a beanie indoors and contemplating getting a moustache tattoo on my index finger if you need further proof.
I first introduced frozen chicken nuggets into our dinner rotation out of pure desperation at
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