Something in the air has changed. After months of skin-pinching chill, the mercury has finally climbed and I can leave the flat without a coat. The light is different, the sun feels warmer, and, at long last, the bounty of summer is beginning to appear on our tables. And I have gone a little bit crazy. Perhaps it's the result of months of waiting through an interminable-seeming winter, but now that summer is truly here I am determined to make the most of it and not waste an ounce of sun-ripened goodness.

Historical and emotional significance aside, the fact that packed lunches are a daily routine for much of the British working population makes office canteens ideal locations for examining the current social and culinary landscape. Enter the pantry at 1.30 and your nose will be assaulted by a cacophony of smells emanating from the microwaves: last night's sausages and mash, soups of varying colours, dollops of shepherd's pie and questionable variations of curries and stews. Not forgetting, of course, the leagues of sandwich eaters - unwrapping parcels of baps, pittas and sliced white at their desks. By looking at peoples' choices it is possible to identify key trends shaping modern diets, as well as examining the cultural and social traditions that have influenced their food.

As with every meal, what someone chooses to pack for lunch is hugely indicative of their personality and their relationship with food. The excessively organised (exquisitely presented foods, carefully portioned and planned with Koolpak), the bulk-cookers or leftover-lovers (usually chilli with rice, or indistinguishable dishes that always seem to include peas), the undomesticated 20-somethings (piles of cold spaghetti with pesto,brought in a supermarket carrier bag) and those who forget or have no time to prepare, and so shop over lunch and perch on the crumb-laden worktops, attempting to "build" their meals: cranking open tins of tuna, and spooning out sad dollops of cottage cheese.

Thank you @ikeauk for making the most perfect lunch boxes for #aldesko days! #joyofstorage… https://t.co/1JWIWW54fI pic.twitter.com/Pes5yjoyEM

— Chloe (@chloelikes2talk) July 12, 2016

Many diners opt for the same food every day, choosing the comfort and security of routine over the challenge of coming up with new ideas. In a recent survey, 77% of participants admitted to eating the same lunch for the last nine months, with 58% saying they'd been doing it for as long as they could remember. (Unsurprisingly, ham sandwiches were the most common culprit.) Some of us may wring our hands in exasperation at the thought of such monotony, but for many, repetition just works. My cousin has eaten a bagel with Dairylea cheese every day for 15 years, and insists he is neither bored, nor dissatisfied. Habits are cemented over a lifetime that can be hard to shift: after all, we like what we know. Furthermore, not having to decide what to eat removes one more decision from our choice-saturated and time-restricted lives. Even though participants in the survey admitted to being bored with the meal, 7 out of 10 said they opted for repetition to save time.

As such, an increasing number of people are opting to buy food daily, rather than bringing it with them. Not, as with our Victorian predecessors, due to a lack of resources, space or access to food,  but rather a lack of interest or time. And given the fact that there are probably more branches of Pret A Manger per square mile of London than public toilets or post boxes, it is understandable that, rather than opting for a cheese and pickle roll every day, you would rather spend £3, £4 or £5 buying a hot pulled pork bap, an elegant box of sushi or a steaming pot of soup. In this context, choice can be exciting, and we revel in the opportunity to buy whatever we fancy, without feeling restricted by our culinary skill, our families or the content of the fridge.

AAA = @abokadouk & @attendantcafe addiction. Send help (no wait, send more!) #aldesko http://t.co/gVnIqtUQ8F pic.twitter.com/1f971RmIwT

— GastroGays (@GastroGays) September 11, 2015

Even so, only a few people can keep up the pace of picking new foodstuffs to try every lunchtime. Work in one place for long enough and you'll have tried everything available in the local area - you'll know what your favourites are. Afraid of disappointment, you start picking what you know - buying the same sandwich every day rather than making it, feeling secure in the knowledge that it will be tasty (or, at least, familiarly bland) and will satisfy.

This search for familiarity is particularly evident in the staggering number of people who opt for supermarket ready meals every day. For every person reheating a home made curry, there are at least four more warming a ready-portioned fish, cottage or shepherd's pie; British classics, with reliable, dependable flavours. Despite the boom of juices, sandwich thins and salad jars, it would appear that a desire to follow the trend only goes so far where lunch is concerned. You could argue that this habit once again highlights the fact that many of us do not consider the packed lunch as a meal with the same value as others (no need for extra effort or imagination), or, alternatively, that we rely on it so highly to provide us with the comfort to see us through to the end of the day that we cannot bear to try anything new, for fear of disappointment.

The environment in which the packed lunch is consumed also influences attitudes towards it. Is it eaten alone, or in company? In the canteen, on a park bench, or at your keyboard? Eating together can make it an enjoyable, sociable occasion, lending the packed lunch a positive connotation of friends, conversation and free time. If eaten in isolation, it can feel the pinnacle of loneliness; a sad meal, a pitying distraction from the grind of the working day. Surrounded by groups of chatting colleagues, nibbling a salad alone at a canteen table can be depressing enough to avoid it altogether, and stick to "al desko", where, with focus dominated by the work at hand, you may barely notice your packed lunch at all. It becomes a meaningless ritual, a necessary habit.

LUNCH CHALLENGE: Whose lunch is more boring than mine? #aldesko pic.twitter.com/HRO2fB6WiU

— WeAreBne / James (@WeAreBrisbane) July 29, 2015

So what does this teach us about the packed lunch? It is a meal of contradictions: both an expression of independence and a search for childhood comforts, to keep you feeling safe and coddled until it's time to go home. It may be seen as a opportunity to showcase one's culinary skill, or to avoid it at all costs. For some, it represents the opportunity to escape work and focus on the real world, either alone or in company. For others, it is simply a ritual that must be dispensed with in order to continue with the day. If eating is considered primarily a social occasion, this meal specifically designed for one may be seen as automatically inferior to all others, especially when it is so heavily associated with the world of work. Alternatively, a sense of childhood glee can remain, with this mono-portioned feast seeming like nothing short of a present.

As with any meal, with each bite we are interacting with our cultural and social history, although, in Britain, this is perhaps rarely at the forefront of our minds as we bite into our favourite sandwich. What is clear is that we should not regard the packed lunch as a mere pit-stop in between two meals with greater nutritional and social importance: its unique position as a meal prepared ahead of time, portioned solely for one, arguably provides greater insight than all other meals into the way we and our society feel about food. I truly believe that it is worth our attention.

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.

Sometimes, only an egg will do. At the end of a long, tough week, I was (like many others, I have no doubt) feeling tired, washed out and run down. For three days I'd been feeling off, vaguely unwell and uninterested in eating. By Friday I decided enough was enough, but felt too tired and too nervous to concoct anything involving more than 5 ingredients and salt. Naturally, an egg was the answer. Not scrambled or fried (the thought of milk or butter made my stomach churn), and the idea of just boiling one seemed to depressing to contemplate. I concluded that, while the day had not been much of a success, there was still an opportunity to turn things around - so I decided to be adventurous. I'd poach one instead.

Sadly that isn't even a joke. For someone who considers themselves an able cook, a poached egg is something I had never attempted alone. I usually just hovered behind my mum, marvelling at the strange alchemy that takes place when you crack an egg into water. I think it was always generally presumed by all (myself included) that I was simply too clumsy to pull it off. I'd always wanted to try, but always managed to avoid it, declaring that it was too faffy, too likely to go wrong. Boiling is simple, reliable and free from goo: leave the poaching to the chefs at the Wolseley. Yet for some unfathomable reason, after a hopeless day and a harrowing week, I decided to give it a go. After all, while there is ample opportunity for disaster, when done correctly, a poached egg is rather miraculous - dainty and delicate, with a completely unique texture and flavour. And it is extremely à la mode, of course, overtaking menus and Instagram feeds worldwide. (Please note that no avocados were harmed during the creation of this meal.)

Not willing to rely on my memory for this grand undertaking, I consulted Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's Veg, which has a double page spread dedicated to the dish of poached egg on toast. With one finger on the recipe, I brought a pan of water to the boil, cracked an egg in a ramekin, and used a spoon to create a whirlpool. It took almost a minute to get anything resembling a vortex - exactly how are you supposed to create a space into which an egg can drop whole? Taking a deep breath, I tipped it in and rammed on the lid, switching off the heat, as directed by HFW.

It was at about this moment that I started swearing.

As I looked on in horror, the egg started spinning in the water, wispy and translucent, like a ghost caught in a cyclone. I turned away to prepare the toast and heard a strange popping sound, followed by the characteristic thump of a pan lid being lifted up and down by internal pressure. "What is this monster I have created?" I thought to myself, grimacing and turning to look back at the pan. Bits of egg white had drifted from the centre and seemed to be boiling, creating a bad-smelling, eggy foam, which promptly spilled over the edge of the pan, and onto the hob. I swiftly moved the blasted thing away from the heat, and removed the lid. The water ceased to splutter, but the lid was left covered in a web of sticky ectoplasm. Delightful.

The toaster popped, the timer beeped, and the moment had come to test the egg. Tablespoon in hand (I am yet to acquire a slotted one for the purpose) I lifted the blobby monstrosity from the water and poked it gingerly. To my great relief, nothing popped, ooozed or splattered. Just the faintest hint of a wobble, which I took to be a good sign. I scraped the butter packet with a knife and spread it on the toast, and slipped the egg onto it. After a dusting of salt and pepper, I eased a small knife through its glimmering surface. Sadly there was no cascade of yolky gold, as promised by HFW's image, but it was soft and yellow, and seemed full of potential. Not even bothering to take it to the table, I stood by the toaster and took a bite. It was the ultimate combination of good bread (strong and sour - photo above), salty butter and creamy egg. Well, half an egg anyway, given how much was lost to the water. Still, it had the desired effect; my shoulders relaxed and I sighed, tension melting away at the pure joy of having tried something and succeeded (mostly), and finding that it tasted good.

I ate with great determination, hunger appearing from nowhere, and found myself thinking of The Deep Blue Sea. This bizarre jump from toast to Terence Rattigan was due to the current production of the play at the National Theatre, directed by Carrie Cracknell and starring the wondrous Helen McCrory. In the final scene of this production, (SPOILER) once Hester has realised that Freddie is never coming back, she knows she has a choice. Try to end her life again, or carry on. For the second time in the play she goes to prepare something to eat - pulling out slices of white bread, and cracking an egg violently into a pan. She starts collect Freddie's things, cradling his jacket to her chest like a child, weeping openly. The audience still has no idea what she will do: will she go on? Or will she turn back to the gas fire and aspirin? She continues to sob, and just as you think she's about to succumb to the darkness, she is roused by a crackling and spitting noise from the pan. She busies herself at the stove, still crying all the while, scoops up the egg and throws it at the bread. She takes her plate to the chair, sits and looks at it, and, with great determination, takes a bite. And then the lights go down.

It is an astonishing moment, theatre at its most simple and powerful. With the simple motion of eating an egg (a symbolic food in itself after all - representing the beginning of all life), Hester demonstrates that she must go on, that life must continue beyond heartbreak. She knows there is more to life, and more to her than past experiences have shown. From the mire of desperation in which she was drowning, a kernel of strength pushed her onwards, despite all her inclination to the contrary.

Fictional as they may be, her actions are some of the most inspirational I have ever seen on stage. And while my situation at the end of the week was in no way comparable to hers, I couldn't help but feel that to eat an egg with great conviction was a good way to reset, to adjust one's viewpoint and remember that the world would not end after three bad days. As Mr Miller, the kindest voice in the play, says "go to sleep, get up and go on living." And we must. No matter what. Tomorrow we can try again.

Follow me at @Spotted_Teapot! 

I have recently started working in a local café. It's a quaint little place that bridges the gap between shabby chic and cosy old caf. Every day there is a delivery of 15-25 loaves of sliced bread from the local bakery for the making of fresh sandwiches while-u-wait. This is currently my job. I stand begloved  behind a display containing large bowls of rare roast beef, sliced ham and marinated tuna, and small bowls of chutneys, mustards and mayos, waiting to be called upon. From midday onwards we are flooded with hungry customers, (mostly regulars) who all turn up eager for their fix of Britain's finest lunchtime invention. Most don't look at the menu chalked up on the board above my head but speak out their order directly -- usually a combination of several combinations (the gentleman who on Monday ordered bacon, egg, ham, lettuce "oh and a bit of cheese as well, maybe some brie?), or a simplification of a classic (the softly spoken lady who asked for "just cheese and cucumber, thanks"). The most popular this week has been the hot roast pork roll, served with butter, a smush of apple sauce and stuffing, several tong-fuls of sizzling,gravy-dripping meat and a crispy-yet-soggy piece of crackling on top. It's like Sunday lunch, but better. No awkward formalities, no annoying relatives, and no blessed potatoes. Just a hot, fragrant, soggy-yet-satisfying bap. Bliss.

As a healthy-eater/quasi-vegetarian in a society of ever expanding waistlines I am unsure as to whether this sandwich addiction is a positive thing or not. Everyone asks for butter, and no one has yet made a comment about the thickness of the bread (2 to 3 times your average slice -- "how do you even fit it in your mouth??" I ask myself) or the quantity of fat on the meat. This is not the haven of the roasted sweet potato, kale and chickpea eater. You can't get the egg without the mayo. And there's no quinoa in sight. It is heavy, hearty and comforting fare. From the careful opening of the grease-paper wrapping, to the eyes-closed-in-contemplation swallowing of  the first bite, to the satisfied chewing of the final crust, it is easy to see that these oh-so-British delights will no go out of fashion any time soon. Whether they're simple, sophisticated or just a bit naff, one's sandwiches for lunch form an integral part of our national identity. It wouldn't be proper to do without them. Watching the umpteenth customer stride away from the counter, smiling with paper bag in hand, I can't help feeling (sweating and covered in flour as I am), that perhaps I do a national service by making sandwiches. They seem to be good for the soul.