What is it with Annabel Karmel?

It seems to me that society has a very set idea of how you should be as a mum... some sort of warm, ever-giving, sensible, highly organised culinary queen and domestic slave. And this domesticity doesn't just extend to washing babygros and changing nappies. Oh no, you have to be the world's finest baby chef, too.
It all starts with the dreaded 'W' word — weaning. When to do it, what to do, how to do it?... Baby rice, pear or mash?... Four months or six months?... One teaspoon or two? And there's only one person who has the answer... Annabel Karmel.
I'd been feeding Sam pear non-stop for three weeks when I first heard her name mentioned by some Yummies in Greenwich Park, like she was some sort of shaman of mush, a champion of slop.
'Oh yes, Dulcie just adores her salmon and cornflake surprise,' one gushed.
Oh God... guilt descended like a blanket of doom.
I bought the book, stared at the cover, stared at her picture. There she was, this baby food guru, groomed to perfection with not one stain of baby shit under her immaculate nails. She'd done to Chicken and Sweet Potato Puree what Nigella Lawson did to Duck With Honey and Orange - she made making it sexy.
The blurb on the back read: “Any mother who does not have at least one of Annabel’s books in her kitchen, well thumbed and splattered with food, should waste no time in putting that right.” Yikes.
Guilt made me do it... and the words of the Yummies ringing in my ears: 'If you wouldn't eat it yourself, don't feed it to your baby.' Would I eat a jar of Hipp Organic Chicken With Vegetables And Rice? Maybe with a hangover...
Anyway, today I chopped, skinned, deseeded, peeled, simmered and whizzed with the handheld blender (as recommended by Annabel). I spooned the gunk into tiny pots and rammed it all into the postage stamp-sized freezer compartment of our fridge. After that, I had a small rest for Deal Or No Deal, while Sam played with some multicoloured plastic and the washing up festered by the sink.
By the time M comes home I definitely won't be arsed with cooking anything else so no doubt we'll get a takeaway — again. And we'll add the dirty plates to the others still festering by the sink. Oh the romance of it all.
'That baby will be eating better than anyone I know,' my mum told me on the phone. Yep, she's got a point there.