Storytime: my personal food journey
- Anne-Marie V.
- Jul 10
- 5 min read
Food wasn’t just fuel in my childhood. It was a daily ritual, shaped by culture, necessity, and love. Growing up in a modest French household, I didn’t realise how much those early habits would influence the way I see and approach food today. Here’s a little glimpse into where it all started…
The way things were
I grew up in Marseille, France’s second largest city, eating simple, home-cooked food made mostly from unprocessed ingredients.
My mother was a stay-at-home mum. She’d walk around our neighbourhood buying meat and charcuterie from the local butcher, fruit and veg from the greengrocer, and fresh baguettes from her favourite bakery (yes, the cliché is real: there really is a bakery at every corner in French cities). She’d ask the butcher for advice on meat cuts and sniff several rockmelons until she found the ripest one. The baker would prep her daily order as she walked in: “Two baguettes, not too baked.” On weekends, she’d treat us to a small selection of pâtisseries.
My dad, on the other hand, would drive to the Carrefour supermarket on Saturday mornings to stock up on longer-life items: cheese, yoghurt, pasta and pulses (always in huge quantities), tinned vegetables, and biscuits. Occasionally on Sundays, he’d head to smaller towns nearby, known for their farmers’ markets — no candles, handmade jewellery or burgers there, but cheesemongers, beekeepers and other artisans offering goods made just a few kilometres away.
I know what you must be thinking... and you're wrong
If you’re not French and you’ve read this far, you might be thinking: “She must come from a rich family.”
Well, not quite. My mum’s food was simple because… she was illiterate. Yes, you read that right: she couldn’t read or write. That ruled out cookbooks, and even reading unfamiliar labels at the shops. She couldn’t drive either, so her shopping was limited to what she could carry from nearby stores. Having grown up in a war-torn developing country, sending her daughter to school was already a big deal.
As for my dad, he had grown up so poor that dinner wasn’t always guaranteed. So for him, having a well-stocked pantry felt like abundance. Hence the shedloads of pasta and pulses - “just in case” as he’d say.
We were a lower-middle class household. There were no overseas holidays, no branded clothes. But my parents would say proudly: “When it comes to food, we don’t even look at price tags.” When German hard-discount supermarkets started popping up in France, they’d wrinkle their noses in horror. Saving money on anything, sure... but food? “What’s wrong with people?” they’d mutter.
Eating out was rare and wildly exciting for me. I had three favourites: a Vietnamese place, a Thai restaurant, and a pizzeria - going to any of these felt like winning the lottery! Like many kids, I’d also beg for McDonald’s. Occasionally, my parents would give in, while moaning about how overpriced it was for what you got.
When two food worlds collide
Fast forward to my 19th birthday: I left the tiny flat I’d grown up in and moved into an even tinier one with the man who’s now my husband. He and his sister had been raised in a small village by two full-time working parents who also came from modest backgrounds. Their version of luxury was a fridge and pantry filled with ultra-processed food: convenient, palatable, fun. Every other Saturday, his dad would load up the car with two weeks’ worth of shopping. Home cooking was mostly reserved for weekends and celebrations.
So when we moved in together, two food cultures collided. But there was a catch: I’d never learned to cook. That, combined with my newfound access to ultra-processed food, meant we ate almost nothing else. We were young and healthy. We saw no reason to care.
From disappointment to discovery
After uni, we moved to London... and were puzzled. We bought products similar to what we’d known in France, but they didn’t taste the same. In fact, most were awful. The restaurant scene dazzled us, but supermarket shelves were a disappointment, even at upscale stores like Waitrose. And that’s when we started cooking: if we wanted food that tasted good, we had no choice but to make it ourselves. Sometimes we’d even shop like my mum did: buying our meat from a butcher, for example. As for bread, we gradually gave up. Most was soft, plastic-wrapped, and supermarket-supplied. We couldn't find anything close to what we missed, and dreadful chains like Greggs weren’t helping.
It was a funny twist of fate: going back to my roots, hand in hand with my husband, 1,200km away from home. We built an impressive collection of cookbooks, spices and kitchen tools. On Sundays, we’d host our London friends for generous, home-cooked lunches. We baked French cakes because British ones often felt too stodgy, too sweet, or unnaturally bright. Of course, with our demanding careers, we didn’t cook every day: not every meal was a three-course affair made from the finest ingredients. But we cooked as often as we could. Convenience food became the exception rather than the rule.
Ironically, it was also London that introduced us to a whole world of flavours. We discovered that Indian food meant more than just butter chicken, became obsessed with Korean cuisine, fell for Spanish tapas, tried Sichuan dishes, and fell madly in love with Middle Eastern flavours.
From what I lived to what I've learnt
Now in Sydney, we keep cooking; with an even broader repertoire inspired by our travels and the rich immigrant culture of Australia.
But living (and maturing) in the UK and Australia has also opened my eyes to something sobering: the devastating effects of poor diet on public health. Overweight and obesity - including in small children - cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes, fatty liver, breast cancer… the list goes on.
It’s made me realise how lucky I’ve been to grow up in a culture where food is revered. And in a family where “unhealthy” wasn’t about restriction, but simply didn’t exist. Because we naturally ate real food, and had the time and skills to cook it.
That’s why I’ve made it my mission to draw from my culture and upbringing, and adapt what I’ve learned to today’s realities - so I can help you reconnect with food, for both joy and health.
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