Lee Anderson wants more food education, but he never tried my GCSE oatmeal sausages

School cookery lessons aren’t the answer to food poverty, says Will Gore

Anderson lectures the poor on how to prepare 30p meals (Parliament TV)

Poor Lee Anderson. The Tory MP came under fire this week for suggesting there was really no great need for food banks in this country, and that people just require better education when it comes to cooking and budgeting. One can imagine him telling Oliver Twist to pad out his gruel with a little more water and be thankful for it.

Of course, Mr Anderson was quite right when he said that it’s possible to make a meal for 30 pence. Regrettably, it’s not possible to ensure sufficient nutritional balance if every meal costs 30p. What wouldn’t many hard-up families give for a nice subsidised lunch in the House of Commons canteen?

I’ve often thought that our historic glorification of the Second World War has a lot to answer for on this subject. Raise the issue of food shortages and there are still plenty of people who’ll say: “Ah yes, but when there was rationing in the war, we were healthier and heartier than ever!” Never mind that they weren’t alive then to enjoy the dubious delights of dried egg; and never mind the fact that the whole point of rationing was to ensure that everyone could access a sufficient and fair share.

Still, going back to chef extraordinaire Mr Anderson, on the face of it there could be something in the notion of more food education. But actually, since cookery has been taught in British schools in one form or another since 1872 (and has been compulsory for all since the 1990s), it’s a fair assumption that he’s not the first person to come up with the idea. It might also be reasonable to conclude, therefore, that it isn’t the answer to food poverty.

And anyway, is food education really something we want to encourage? My first exhibit for the prosecution is a recent Greek salad. This is one of a handful of dishes my daughter has made in her food technology lessons during her first term of school cookery.

In week one, she had made an apple crumble, which ended up being decent enough, but which nonetheless caused a major logistical headache because all the ingredients had to be weighed out at home, then placed into myriad bits of Tupperware, before being packed into bags already bulging with books, PE kit, a baking dish, cooking apron and what not. She looked like she was off to the front when she left the house.

A fortnight later, it was spag bol on the menu. I raised an eyebrow at the recipe, but soon had to accept that 12-year-olds couldn’t reasonably be asked to bring in half a bottle of wine, nor to let their Bolognese simmer for four hours. Sadly, a mishap with a jar of mixed herbs meant we spent the next couple of days picking oregano out of our teeth.

Last week, I found myself in the supermarket with an ingredient list for barbecue chicken, the aforementioned Greek salad and coleslaw. When I got home, my daughter pointed out that it was coleslaw or salad, so it turned out I’d bought various items for nothing. And when the day of the cookery lesson arrived, a familial failure of communication led the barbecue marinade and the feta cheese for the salad to be left at home.

On the plus side, everything my daughter has made at school so far has been edible. On the downside, she has not enjoyed any of them. What’s more, I have spent a fair bit more than 30p on each meal’s ingredients. There have been spillages, mistakes and tears. Even Oliver Twist might think twice about asking for more.

In case you want the prosecution’s second exhibit: I give you oatmeal sausages.

These were the piece de resistance of my GCSE cooking project in 1995, which just so happened to be on the theme of Second World War rationing. And they were, I can confirm, completely foul. Somewhere between a faintly bacony porridge and a flapjack cigar, they were proof if proof were needed that the Second World War was not a golden age for foodies.

In the coming weeks, thousands of people will be poring over the recipe for the Queen’s jubilee pudding, learning how to make a vast trifle that can be shared at jolly street parties across the country. It’s a nice idea in a way, but it also serves to demonstrate that Britain’s relationship with food is an oddly complicated one: rather like Lee Anderson’s relationship with reality.