When you’re autistic—whether diagnosed young or later in life—there’s often a comfort found in something called a “safe food.” It’s not always the most exciting thing on the plate. In fact, some people might even say “eww”. But for us, that food becomes a little anchor of calm in a world that can feel overwhelming.
For me, that food was semolina.
Yes—semolina.
Thick, warm, soothing semolina with a swirl of raspberry jam.
It might sound strange, but I loved it. From childhood right up until my Coeliac disease diagnosis in 2012, it was my comfort. I remember sitting at my primary school dinner table where, curiously, none of the other children liked it. We weren’t allowed to leave the table until we’d finished everything on our plates—but on semolina days, the rules worked out in my favour. The other kids would quietly slide their bowls over to me when the teachers weren’t looking. I’d end up with five or six servings, which I happily devoured. Looking back now, I’m sure the teachers knew exactly what was going on—but they let it slide. And honestly, it’s one of my favourite childhood memories.
As I got older, semolina became something more than just a food—it became a ritual. I’d share it with my mum during cosy evenings watching Pride and Prejudice, our shared special interest. That time together was quiet and gentle, just the two of us, the comfort of Austen’s words and that familiar warm bowl in hand.
But when I was diagnosed with Coeliac disease, semolina had to go. It wasn’t just giving up a food—it was saying goodbye to a piece of my history. To comfort. To the calm it gave me during hard days. And now, 13 years on, I still miss it.
What makes it harder is knowing that I won’t be able to share that tradition with Amelia either. Not just because of my Coeliac disease—but because of her own allergies. She’s already navigating a world of food restrictions, and semolina won’t be on her menu.
That realisation brings with it a quiet grief that many neurodivergent and allergy-parent families will understand. It’s not about the pudding itself—it’s about the moments it represented. Safety. Togetherness. Familiarity.
But parenting while neurodivergent teaches you how to adapt. While Amelia and I may not have semolina and Austen nights like I had with my mum, we’ll make our own new rituals. Safe foods that suit her body and soul. Comfort that looks different, but still feels just as deep.
Because in the end, it’s not really about semolina.
It’s about the feeling of being safe, seen, and loved.
If this blog resonated with you, I’d love to hear your ‘safe food’ stories—whether from your own childhood or something your child loves now. Let’s celebrate those little comforts that carry so much meaning. And don’t forget to like, share, or subscribe if you’d like more posts like this.
References:
Coeliac UK: www.coeliac.org.uk National Autistic Society: www.autism.org.uk Allergy UK: www.allergyuk.org
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