For many of us, packed lunches have an automatic association with school: either as a daily occurrence or as a special feature of geography field trips. The impact of the childhood packed lunch on our adult selves and eating habits ought not to be underestimated, as, being the only meal of the day eaten without parental supervision, it becomes fertile ground for shaping attitudes to food.

School dinners began in earnest in the late 19th century, when it was discovered that poor pupils were not gaining sufficient nutrition at home to adequately equip them for a day of study. From 1906 schools could offer meals, and from 1907 these meals had to meet government-approved nutritional standards. As detested as they often were, canteen meals were a cheap (or even free) way to get a hot meal down thousands of young people every lunchtime. By the 70s, however, students were able to bring their food with them, and the trend gained popularity in the 1980s under Margaret Thatcher, who increased the cost of school meals, It is now estimated that about half of students opt for a packed lunch, at a cost of almost £1 billion to the nation's parents.

In the 70s and 80s, school packed lunches would largely feature homemade sandwiches, with perhaps the occasional sausage roll or scotch egg. By the 1990s, the concept of "kid food" was becoming well established: bite sized, fun-shaped morsels of processed food thought to appeal to children's capricious tastes. As Bee Wilson notes in First Bite, in reality this means processed carbohydrates, sugars, dairy and salt,  thought to recreate the simplicity and comfort of nursery food. So came the likes of snacks such as Pombears, Cheese Strings and Dairylea Lunchables. Sugar-laden "fruit bites", squashes and fizzy drinks also began to feature, promising "no artificial preservatives" but offering negligible nutritional content or energy for learning. If the meals of childhood set up our tastes for the future (and Wilson is emphatic that they do) then it is unsurprising that millennials are opting for ready-made lunches as adults, filled with the processed flavours to which they are accustomed, rather than creating​ something from scratch.



The school packed lunch is crucial in developing attitudes to food because of the environment in which it is consumed. For reasons of logistics, packed-lunch eaters are often segregated from their hot-dinner peers, meaning that a good portion of the lunch hour is dedicated not only to eating your own meal, but also to looking at everyone else's.

I like to think of the packed lunch room at my own school as something of a microcosm of the wider world, a place where the hierarchy of the classroom really came into play. When we were 9 there was a rota for sitting next to the most popular girl, who was  smart, rich and athletic and ate, as far as I can recall, meals made up almost entirely of grapes and melon slices. Without the social-equalising element of the hot dinner (when everyone, regardless of wealth, is forced to eat the same slop) everyone's packed lunch reflected their personality and background: my German friend brought salami sandwiches and chocolate-filled brioche, the neat-as-a-pin class brainbox brought perfectly portioned rolls, with a pre-halved kiwi and spoon. There was the girl who ate only grated cheese sandwiches on fluffy white bread and another who never wanted to eat anything at all, who would nibble dolefully on a Golden Delicious for 45 minutes. We looked and copied one another, demanding from our parents the same snacks and treats we saw in other girls' meals. We shaped our eating habits around each other, reevaluating and fine tuning our preferences according to what was considered the best way or coolest thing to eat. (And this habit continues in adulthood: women are constantly asking​ one another about their lunch choices, eyeing up the next soup and salad trend that could enliven the never ending weight loss struggle.)

As whitewashed, bland and unpleasant-smelling as the packed lunch room was, eating there felt like being part of a special club; as though, by consuming our own food, rather than that intended for the masses, we were getting away with something. We did not have to endure the whims of the catering staff, but rather the affection and fussing of our mothers, who sought to provide us with food that was both fun and sustaining. Whether or not their choice was  met with approval (the girl who only ate apples insisted that her mother didn't understand that she hated sandwiches), there was no denying that this was a meal designed solely for us, which did not have to be shared. Thus the lunchbox (container included, obviously) became a source of pride, a badge of personal identity.

In these instances, the school packed lunch can feel like a treat. The sense of pleasure is heightened by the fact that, for young children, most lunchboxes contain foods to be eaten with fingers, things normally associated with parties: tiny squares of sandwiches, tomatoes, grapes and mini chocolate fingers. They are thus relieved of the frustrations imposed by cutlery at home, and eating feels more like play. This idea is thrown into relief most noticeably on school trips, when everyone is required to bring their own food. Ask any 8 year old to identify the highlight of their day and you are guaranteed to receive the response "lunch".

Children often associate packed lunches with treats

The lunchbox may be a source of pleasure for the child (a feast of Hula Hoops, cocktail sausages and Iced Gems!), but it is often less so for the parent in charge of its preparation, who is forced to do battle with the need to feed their child responsibly and the desire to spoil them. Leanings towards the latter are in no way helped by the preponderance of advertising of this so-called "kid food" and the normalisation of processed fast food into the diets of children. Although much has been done to highlight the poor quality of school meals thanks to Jamie Oliver, research has shown that parents are no better than schools at feeding their children healthy meals in the middle of the day. A study published last autumn revealed that only 1.6% of children's lunchboxes met the nutritional standards required by school dinners, with only 1 in 5 lunchboxes containing any vegetables or salad, and 52%-60% containing too many sweet and savoury snacks, or sugary drinks. This has resulted in increasing numbers of children leaving primary school obese, setting up unhealthy eating habits for life.

It would be easy to demonise parents and their lack of nutritional awareness at this point, but it we should not underestimate the financial and time pressures they face when trying to scrabble together one or more lunches for their children every night after a full day of work. It is a fact of modern life that not everyone has the time or resources to create healthy feasts for their offspring every day. However, beyond these limitations, there is clearly a lot more at stake when it comes to preparing a lunchbox, beyond emulating the government's "eatwell plate". The tie between parental love and feeding should never be underestimated; with parents seeing their food as a true expression of their affection for their children, and as their first and foremost responsibility. 

Making a packed lunch for your children is a way of allowing your love to infiltrate the school environment, reminding them of how much they are cherished. But it is also a way of keeping control of them; without relying on the whims of the school catering staff, it is possible to know exactly what your children have (and, crucially, have not) eaten over the course of the day. Or so you think. Ultimately, every parent has to struggle with the knowledge that children are perfectly capable of tipping their sandwiches and fruit away, lying about how delicious they were and skipping merrily off to the canteen or vending machine to buy crisps and chocolate. If children are fussy, and liable to waste or flat refuse anything other than their favourite, beige foods, it is only too understandable that a parent will opt to give it to them, believing that it's better for them to eat that than nothing at all. Surely no one can forget the images of mothers desperately passing their children burgers through the school gates when Jamie Oliver overhauled school dinners, in fear that they would go hungry. 


 
Added to the mix is the fear of appearing a sub-standard parent by not providing a good enough lunch. This parental pressure is particularly notable in Japan, where the ritual of bento is an important part of school life. Schools apply strict nutritional standards to which parents must comply, and there is huge social pressure to create edible works of art for children each day, thanks to the trend for kyaraben - the fashioning of food to look like cartoon characters. Women have spoken of the highly competitive nature of bento-making, with mothers devoting hours to the careful preparation of these delicate meals in order to maintain a sense of superiority, as well as to prevent their children from being bullied for having a boring lunch. Teachers may even send written warnings home if the bento is considered insufficient. The concepts of love and feeding are so heavily intertwined that a mother who is not seen to put in significant effort into her child's lunch can be considered to be lacking in affection, and therefore a lesser parent.

The great irony of parental angst is that no amount of stress will guarantee how your child feels about packed lunches. No matter how long you agonise over the correct carb to protein ratio, once they reach a certain age, there is no way of knowing whether the little darling will throw it all away in disinterest. Some cannot wait to throw off the shackles of the parental packed lunch: hence why British sixth formers, freed of the rigours of the canteen, spend a good portion of their lunch hours visiting McDonald's or making toast, simply because they can. Others continue to feel the connection to home, and yearn for the feeling of comfort provided by a mother's meal. I recall the absolute delight on an A-Level trip of discovering a jam sandwich that my mum had slipped in my rucksack, because she just knew I'd be hungry. I was filled with the warmth of her affection, and I nibbled it contentedly in my bunkbed, feeling as though she were right there with me.

We should not underestimate the connection between packed lunches and parental affection (Photo: Oh Sweet Bag of Mine)

Despite reveling in the opportunity to choose our own foods as adults, the connection between a packed lunch and parental love is still somehow present, even if well disguised. One need only look at the number of people who opt for ready meals such as spaghetti Bolognese, cottage pie and casserole for their working lunches - warming comfort foods associated with childhood. These are the meals our mothers would.make: hot, hearty and filling, seen as important for a child's growth. And this is not restricted to Britain - as Meera Sodha wryly notes, although office workers in Mumbai have access to Westernised foods in their tiffin, they still prefer to eat "what mummyji makes". As hard as we may try to shake it off, the premise that the packed lunch represents the caring presence of a parent remains.

While this harking back to childhood speaks volumes about our modern anxiety epidemic, it also highlights the long-lasting impact of the food consumed in our earliest years on the habits we maintain in adulthood. Despite our independence and maturity, in the middle of our working days we long for the time when feeding ourselves required no work other than the lifting of steaming forkful to mouth, and we didn't have to worry about vegetables. In the havoc of the working day, eating a meal that comes pre-wrapped and ready to eat provides momentary relief from the responsibility of adulthood; even if you made it yourself, it can still feel like the home-packed delights of youth. The packed lunch becomes a gift, a treat and an act of self-love.

When the clocks strike noon across the world, workers down tools, children abandon maths with glee and harassed office bods look away from their screens to partake in a sacred daily ritual. The packed lunch.

As people gather at benches, long dining tables or corporate break out areas, there is an unmistakable hum of anticipation as bags are rustled and clip-top containers clicked; a brief moment when eyes light up as the day's fare is revealed. Whatever its contents, the packed lunch has the potential to delight (or disappoint) daily, and it can represent an irreplaceable moment of peace in a hectic working day.

Quotidian as it may be, the packed lunch is a hugely important cultural and personal signifier. What we choose to feed ourselves (or our dependents) at this all-important meal sheds light on our personalities and social background, and, crucially, our relationship with food.

So what is it exactly? At its core, the packed lunch is a meal prepared in advance, that is eaten outside of the home. In England, the history of the packed lunch is inevitably intertwined with that of the industrial revolution. In the era before the steam engine, when the majority of work was agricultural, farmhands would return home for lunch, or were brought food in the fields by their wives and daughters - if, indeed, they paused for lunch at all. Urbanisation and the arrival of factories meant that people began to work further and further from home, with a limited pause in the day that did not permit a return to the homestead for feeding. So they had to take their meals with them. As did those working on the new railways: photographs of navvies (the infamous Irish workers) show men resting at noon with a straw "pantry" and a large flask of tea or coffee, to keep them sustained through the long working day. In Yorkshire, coal miners kept their bread in a "snap" tin, made of heavy material designed to keep out the dust and grime, so called because of the sharp snap it made when opened. The meal itself became known as snap, and the term can still be heard in parts of Yorkshire.

Poverty and working conditions determined the menu of these early packed lunches: a poor labourer's lunch (or "noonshine" as it was known) might include bread and dripping, with perhaps a piece of cheese. Pastries and pies were also popular, as the thick pastry, which was not intended for consumption, protected the contents from the blackened, greasy hands of the workers. Alongside the famous Cornish pasty was the Bedfordshire clanger - a long suet pastry containing a worker's complete meal, with meat, onions and potatoes at one end, and a sweet filling (usually jam) at the other.

We're all about coming up with new pasty flavours, but sometimes a Traditional #Cornish Pasty, is the only #Pasty that will do. pic.twitter.com/XsJmueQJRm

— Warrens Bakery (@WarrensBakery) February 28, 2017

The crucial development in the history of the British packed lunch is the rise of the sandwich. Quick to make, easily transportable, and even more easily eaten, Bee Wilson notes that "no dish has a stronger association with the world of work". Although John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich, is often credited with the invention of this revolutionary food item (the story that, while working or playing cards, he called for "beef between two slices of bread" so as to keep his hands and cards clean) it's worth remembering that the idea of putting filling in bread has been practised for centuries around the world.

Historians have suggested that the first sandwich can be traced to the first century BC, and the first Passover meal. Known as the Korech or Hillel, it consisted of apples, nuts, bitter herbs and unleavened bread, its sticky consistency intended to represent the mortar used by Jewish slaves in Egypt. Even in Britain, labourers had been eating cheese with their bread for centuries: the crucial difference (as Wilson points out) is that Montagu ordered his sandwich ready made, thus branding it a convenience food suitable for both the aristocracy and the masses. By the turn of the 19th century, sandwiches were being served at late night suppers, balls and in clubs as a fashionable snack, with fillings becoming increasingly elaborate over time. Meanwhile, an altogether more crude variety of boiled ham sandwiches was sold on the streets of Victorian Britain for 1d to hungry shop workers at lunchtime.

What brought the two traditions together to create the lunch box staple we know and love (recent stats suggest that 56% of Brits eat sandwiches daily, at a cost of £48,000 a year) was the industrialisation of bread production, allowing factories to churn out loaves at an unprecedented rate. By the 1930s, sliced bread was available in Britain, and the Chorleywood process of the 1960s (which added extra yeast, fats and other additives to make for a quicker rising time and a longer shelf life) meant that it was possible to buy bread more cheaply than ever. This was the dawn of the 'sandwich loaf': specifically designed to make the preparation of this simple meal as quick as possible. Although suitable for any time of day, the classic sandwich became a lunchtime staple, given its cheapness, ease of preparation and possibility for variation.

Sandwiches for sale, London 1972, photo by Glen F. pic.twitter.com/bY82To4T02

— Rob Baker (@robnitm) May 8, 2017

The widespread adoption of sandwiches as packed lunch food really took hold in the mid-20th century. Although chop houses and canteens fuelled Victorian city and factory workers in the middle of the day (many did not have suitable facilities at home to prepare their own food) we know that by the late 1940s, workers were taking sandwiches with them to work, in an attempt to save money. For those unable to buy lunch daily, butter and jam, tinned ham, spam and salmon all started to feature in the home-to-work sandwich, perhaps with a smear of salad cream or a slice of tomato in summer.

The wedge sandwich (as popularised by Montagu, and later, Marks & Spencer) is now known and consumed for lunch in different variations the world over. Whether it's an over-stuffed Reuben on rye in New York, a delicate tramezzino di prosciutto in Milan, or a toasted aduki-bean sandwich in Nagoya - us Brits could easily presume (in an echo of colonial superiority) that sandwiches as we know them are the packed lunch of choice the world over. This is not so, and the unique cultural traditions that surround the packed lunch in different nations show clearly that there is far more to it than simple convenience and availability of white sliced.

Take, for example, bento, a ritual rooted in Japanese history and culture. Both the name of the meal and its container, bento are boxes used to transport food that is consumed away from the home. The first bento are said to have been used by ancient hunters and soldiers, who used them to transport dried rice when they were away from home, possibly as far back as the 5th century, but certainly by the 12th century. By the Edo period (1650-1868) bento was firmly established not only as a way of transporting the meals of workers, but also for picnics among the middle classes, particularly at the theatre.

Bento boxes were made of lacquered wood or wicker, with internal divisions intended for the different foodstuffs,  including rice, pickles, vegetables and fish. As in Britain, the advent of industrialisation and the railway meant that workers needed a convenient way to eat outside the home. In the mid 19th century, bento started becoming available to buy at railway stations, allowing workers to pick up their midday meal en route. Although ready-made bento is widely available in modern Japan, the homemade variety, usually prepared by the woman of the house, still maintains huge cultural significance.

2017.5.2 #washoku #和食 #おひるごはん #息子の塾弁 #息子弁当 #娘のお弁当 #女子高生弁当 #ランチボックス #ランチタイム #japan #japanesefood #obento #bento #bentobox

A post shared by @makiko_cooking on May 1, 2017 at 4:06pm PDT

While the attitude towards lunch-making for British workers may be said to be begrudging at best (ie. a box filled with whatever is lurking in the fridge), bento is in no way treated like a second-class meal. Even if consumed as part of a working lunch, it is still regarded as something with the potential for high culinary, nutritional and, crucially, aesthetic achievement. Bento should be fresh and colourful, containing a range of protein and vegetables, the contents reflecting the location and the season, and always impeccably presented,. It is traditionally wrapped in a silk furoshiki cloth that also doubles as a table cloth, and is eaten at room temperature with chopsticks. Bento has gained fame worldwide, and in Japan, the art of its creation (as documented in the numerous dedicated websites and Instagram posts) can be said to be nothing short of a national obsession.

Another unique packed lunch tradition is tiffin, as famously found in Mumbai. The term "tiffin" has disputed origins (it is generally agreed to have meant any form of snack or light meal during the colonial era), but now it refers specifically to the ingenious packed lunch system that operates in India's capital. City workers' long commutes demand an early departure, before the kitchen and cook are up and running. So their lunches are collected from their homes later in the day by thousands of men known as dabbawallahs,  As with bento, tiffin refers to the container as well as the concept - several tiers of stainless steel tins (containing rice, curries, pickles, bajis and more) that are clamped together and stored in thermos pouches to keep warm. These pouches are then balanced on the heads of the dabbawallahs, who transport them by bicycle and train to the business districts, where they are distributed punctually to their owners. Invented in 1890 when the city was in flux, the system, which now feeds at least 200,000 people, has 99% success rate. (An award-winning film, The Lunchbox, told a wonderful story about the "unlucky" 1%). In a world dominated by Deliveroo and UberEats this seems a staggering feat, given that tiffin relies on almost no technology, using only a simple colour coding system to ensure the food arrives at the right destination at the right time. Tiffin is taken very seriously; being a dabbawallah is seen as a respectable trade, as they are crucial to the functioning of the city and its workers.



In Britain there is a tendency to consume one's working lunch with startling rapidity, as though, unlike dinner, it does not count as a "proper" meal, and is thus unworthy of more attention. It seems that, for many, lunch is an afterthought, something to be dealt with, but not necessarily enjoyed. As a result, we neglect to take it seriously. But this is not so elsewhere. A good bento is a symbol of national pride and patriotism, as well as personal culinary achievement: showing an adherence to presentation and healthy nutrition. In Mumbai, the working lunch is so highly regarded that an entire logistical system was required in order to feed the city's workers hot, homemade food. In these cultures, lunch is not an afterthought but a priority; and although our cultural landscape is markedly different (having more women at home means there is someone with the dedicated role of lunch-making every day), us Brits could perhaps do well to learn from these other countries and the way they look at lunch. The satisfaction of eating a meal prepared with care and attention should not be underestimated, and could arguably prevent mindless snacking later on.

All this goes to show that the meal eaten between breakfast and dinner is not a negligible one. Designed as sustenance for workers, at its core it is fuel; intended to power brain and body for the remaining hours of toil. Because it is so rarely associated with leisure (unless, of course, you are on holiday, but I would argue that this constitutes a picnic) it has suffered from the connotation in Britain that it need not be an enjoyable experience, merely sufficient. This attitude is exemplified by the rise of the sandwich, which is seen as the fastest, most straightforward way of eating, without having to step away from one's desk. But in Japan and India the packed lunch is seen as a tangible connection to one's cultural history, giving it a firm sense of identity. Perhaps if we were to look at our own food in this way, we would be less likely to begrudge its preparation, and thus eat with greater relish.

My first relationship was, in my opinion, everything a first romance should be. Innocent, all-consuming and completely unrealistic. He was tall, long haired, with a penchant for hard rock and kissing in public. I was a little bookworm who thought stripy socks, frilly skirts and Converses were the height of fashion. Naturally we were besotted. Many a long afternoon was spent in his tall, white house, mostly cuddled in front of the computer watching music videos or cocooned on the sofa.  He would sit and pick away at his guitar with calloused fingers, and I would hug my knees and watch, convinced that life could not get any better.

Getting along to the general theme of this blog, I should point out that very little food was consumed during these sunny days. He never ate much at all, but drank Coca Cola on tap ("my expensive coke habit" he used to call it) which for me, who found all this an alien idea, was a cause of incessant worry. I even brought him breakfast on more than one occasion. Though I barely ate there either. Somehow, when caught up in that delicious whirlwind of pubescent hormones, we simply weren't hungry. What did we need food for?

On the one or two occasions when the room (literally) started spinning and we realised that we hadn't eaten or drunk in 8 hours, we always called upon the same things. Toast and peanut butter (always prepared directly on the surface without a plate,  my mother would have died) and the occasional crunchy apple (straight from the bowl, never washed first). He had a particular way of "cooling down the toast," grasping it in one hand and swinging his arm back and forth through the air with a goofy look on his face. I thought it was hilarious.

We were (as I imagine many other couples are, at 16,) convinced that we would be together for life. I even remember a discussion about what colour to paint the walls of our house. Or rather our garret. He would be a musician, and I would be an actress, so our imminent poverty was an accepted fact. "But I won't care," I told myself one spring afternoon, when we'd finally escaped the house and were lying, eyes closed, on the garden swing seat; "we only need each other to be happy." Then, after a moment: "That is, as long as there are apples and peanut butter. Then we'll be just fine."  What perfect simplicity.