When Food Becomes Care
Why feeding new moms is the best gift you can give them, by Yasmin Khan
Editor’s Note: This essay by award-winning cookbook author Yasmin Khan appeared in the Mom’s the Bombe issue of Cherry Bombe’s print magazine. Be sure to check out her Substack, Rising Up with Yasmin Khan.
By Yasmin Khan
Portrait by Issy Croker
The last meal I ate before my daughter was born was French pâtisserie. Two unapologetically large pastries, to be precise. An almond croissant—dense, sticky, with hints of sweet marzipan—and a pain au chocolat—flaky, airy, filled with a thick slab of slightly bitter cacao. Yes, I’m aware that this is an alarming amount of sugar, fat, and carbohydrates to eat in one sitting, but I was eight days past my due date, carrying an extra 30 pounds, and feeling anxious about the possibility of being induced the next day. I have no regrets.
As I tore the strips of soft buttery pastry and dipped them into my café au lait, I had no idea that this meal, shared with my partner in the mid-morning spring sunshine, would be the last meal I’d eat in peace for several months. We were sitting in my favorite French deli, just minutes from our East London apartment. It was the kind of place where the butter stains the paper bag, the Parisian owner scowls if you ask for oat milk, and handwritten signs on a chalkboard firmly instruct customers not to ask for the Wi-Fi code because there isn’t one.
But the quality of the baked goods made up for any technological limitations. The counter heaved with sweet treasures: pistachio-, lemon-, and rose-colored macarons; cream-filled profiteroles and crunchy mille-feuille. It was a place I’d come to know well during my pregnancy, where unrestricted guilt-free eating became one of my greatest joys. But not long after we returned home that morning, everything changed. My water broke while I was watching a movie on the couch, and after a brutally intense labor, where I often felt unheard and unseen, I had an emergency C-section. I don’t remember much of the operating theater (I had taken all the drugs) and the lights, voices, and sense of urgency felt like a hazy dream. The only clear shock was how suddenly my body felt like it was no longer mine.
When I was finally back on the ward, a beautiful baby snoozing on my chest, more exhausted than I ever remember feeling, a tray arrived. On it were two thin pieces of toasted industrial white bread, a packet of margarine, and a cup of tepid water. It looked as unappealing as I felt, but, being hungry, I tentatively reached for it. As I chewed the dry, cold bread, which tasted plastic-y and gummy, I realized I hated this meal not because it didn’t taste of anything but because it reflected the sum of my hospital experience—a sense of cool indifference. I texted my partner to request some proper food and fell into a pitiful sleep.
The next day, in the hospital, my mom brought me some homemade okra stew. It was soft and fragrant, the okra yielding, the rice comforting. I vividly remember the relief of eating it: how my shoulders dropped, how my body seemed to recognize it as nourishment and not just calories. It felt like being cared for. And in the following weeks, food came to be how I felt most looked after.
The early weeks after my daughter’s birth were a blur of sleep deprivation, physical discomfort, soreness, spiraling anxiety, and relentless attempts to master breastfeeding. Time collapsed, days and nights blurred into one, and I barely remember how I got through it. But I remember, with startling clarity, what other people cooked for me.
A cottage pie, followed by a rhubarb crumble, which I ate gingerly, tethered to a whirring, uncomfortable breast pump. Dal and rice, steaming and gently spiced. The vegetable moussaka, rich with fried eggplant, that I cut into pieces and ate one-handed with a spoon while breastfeeding. The huge lasagna we divided into three portions and put in the freezer for future meals. The jar of freshly made pesto, bright green, generous with olive oil. My mum’s fragrant saffron and dried lime-infused Persian stews. These dishes were delivered by friends or family who sometimes lived an hour away from us but made the effort to cook and travel. Some even said they didn’t want to come in and would simply leave the food at the door. They really got it.
Love print magazines? Us too! Subscribe to ours here.
The postpartum food we received sustained me in ways that went far beyond hunger. The meals arrived without expectation and asked for nothing in return. They were expressions of care at a moment when I had very little capacity to receive anything else. Because I was not okay.
For weeks, I struggled to feed my baby and she would not gain any weight. Breastfeeding did not come easily and my body felt like it was failing at the most basic task it was supposed to perform. I was bruised, hormonal, exhausted, and overwhelmed. And the meals others cooked for me became a lifeline.
When you are at your lowest point physically and mentally and someone hands you a bowl of food they have lovingly prepared and says, This is for you, something shifts. Food, in those moments, is not about calories or nutrition or recovery timelines or “bouncing back.” It is about being held and seen. It is about someone recognizing that you are extremely vulnerable and responding with something practical, sustaining, and kind.
In many cultures, food in the postpartum period is understood this way. From nourishing Chinese broths, made with chicken, red dates, and ginger, to Nigerian spicy pepper soups and Indian panjeeri made with roasted wheat flour, dried fruits, and nuts to rebuild strength—across the globe specific traditions and recipes are built around warming dishes, slow cooking, and food as medicine. The new mother is fed so she can rest and so she can heal, not just physically, but emotionally.
In much of modern Western culture, we have lost this ancient wisdom. We focus obsessively on the baby but often forget the person who has just undergone one of the most profound physical and psychological transformations of their life. All of which is to say that one of the most helpful things you can do to prepare for having a baby is to stockpile your freezer with soups, stews, and curries but also, crucially, ask others to help fill it. We need community when we have children, and for our well-being, we also need to be better at asking for help. This could mean spending part of your baby shower setting up a meal train. Or if people want to send gifts, gently suggesting they send food rather than flowers.
So if someone you know has just had a baby, take them food! Don’t ask what they want (as long as you have checked allergens and any dietary requirements, of course); simply decide, cook, and deliver. Leave it at the door if needed. Label it and make it easy to reheat. It can be the simplest thing—a basic tomato sauce, a packet of pasta, a wedge of parm, and a bag of salad. Because food at its best is not about perfection or presentation.
It is about showing up when words are inadequate. It is about saying: I see how hard this is. Let me carry this part for you. In the aftermath of birth—especially when things do not go to plan—this kind of care can make all the difference. It certainly did for me. I may not remember every detail of what I ate in those early weeks, but I remember how the meals people sent made me feel: less alone, less depleted, more human. And that, in the end, is what good food is really all about.
Some of our fave brands founded by moms
Loeffer Randall shoes &accessories by Jessie Loeffler Randall
Jones Road makeup & skincare by Bobbi Brown
Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams by Jeni Britton
Ulla Johnson fashion & fragrance
Hedley & Bennett aprons & kitchenware by Ellen Bennett
Please note, some of our links may earn us a small commission.
My mother lived in with us for 6 weeks when my eldest was born. In fact she turned up at the hospital hours after I had given birth and somehow fussed her way into the kitchen and brought me a steaming bowl of kicheree, spinach shaak (curry) and millet rotla (flatbreads). Plus a few chunks of katlu (similar to the panjeeri above I think) that I had to eat with a large glass of water as I breastfed. Similar followed for 6 weeks which is how long it took me to build good milk, start my body on the path of recovery and feel semi confident in what I was going. I hated it at the time but looking back it was the best start to motherhood for me and to life for my baby
Beautifully written