Hello Fans,
Welcome back to Episode 2 of The Yellow Moustache Diaries! It has been nearly two months since I joined the world of solids, and I have some important updates from the frontlines.
First of all, I would like to address the great feeding accessories scam. When this journey began, Mumma seemed convinced that my dining experience required a collection of premium silicone bowls, suction plates, designer spoons, and various other colourful objects that looked like they belonged in a modern art museum.
Two months later, almost all of them have been replaced by silver. Silver bowl. Silver plate. Silver spoon. Apparently, after generations of successfully feeding babies, my grandparents had already solved this problem before Instagram was invented.
The same fate has befallen my drinking arrangements. There was a time when Mumma Papa discussed sippers around me with great seriousness. Different spouts were analysed. Leak-proof claims were evaluated. Reviews were read. Today, I casually drink from a Silver glass. Nobody speaks about the sipper anymore. May it rest in peace.
Then came what historians will refer to as The Great Baby Food Maker Investigation of 2026. Mumma spent days researching food makers that could steam, blend, puree, chop, mash, sing lullabies, and probably file taxes. Every product promised to revolutionise baby feeding. The final outcome?
One steel cooker.
One steel pan.
One steamer basket.
One masher.
One portable blender.
After extensive research, we somehow arrived at exactly the same kitchen setup that existed before the research. Remarkable.
Now for the exciting part. I have officially tasted nearly 50 foods. Fifty. And that’s without counting the 7-8 spices that have quietly sneaked into my meals. For someone who survived exclusively on milk not very long ago, I would say I have shown admirable courage.
Every new recipe at home now feels less like cooking and more like a scientific experiment. A new ingredient is selected. Hypotheses are formed. Grandmothers are consulted. Papa is included in the decision. Then everyone gathers around to observe the results. And by “results”, I mean my face.
Nobody cares how long the recipe took. Nobody asks whether Mumma enjoyed cooking it. Everyone just wants to know:
What did Sharva do?
Did he smile?
Did he demand more?
Did he make that face?
You know the face. The one that suggests a serious complaint is about to be filed. Thankfully, most food combinations have been a huge success. A few have been rejected with immediate and unquestionable authority. No appeals. No second chances. No negotiations. One spoon and the decision is final.
Among the winners, a few have become my comfort foods. Ragi Banana Porrdige and I are now close friends. Mango has maintained a strong reputation throughout the season. And Blueberry Apple Oats has established itself as a reliable crowd favourite. And so has Toor Dal and Sweet Potato. Whenever these appear on the menu, everyone relaxes. Nobody enjoys uncertainty. Especially not after spending 45 minutes preparing baby food.
What surprises the adults is that I genuinely enjoy trying new foods. Show me something unfamiliar and I am usually willing to investigate.
Taste it? Yes.
Examine it? Absolutely.
Approve it? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
I have also begun my journey into finger foods when I came to Ahmedabad. The adults seem very excited about this. They place food in front of me and wait expectantly. I touch it. I squeeze it. I inspect it. I wave it around. Sometimes I even eat it. Everyone celebrates as though I have solved a complex mathematical theorem.
One thing I have remained absolutely consistent about is texture.
Liquid food? No, thank you.
Runny food? Not interested.
Watery food? Please remove it from my sight.
From day one, I have preferred my meals with some texture. I may be a baby, but I have standards.
Meanwhile, an unexpected transformation has occurred. My Mumma, who would never have described herself as a kitchen expert, now spends a significant portion of her day researching recipes, food combinations, ingredient pairings, nutrient profiles, and ways to keep my sensitive tummy happy. She now casually discusses iron-rich foods, fibre content, digestion, and texture progression. Frankly, I think she deserves an honorary degree in Baby Food Studies.
My influence has expanded beyond the kitchen as well. There is now a high chair in Ahmedabad. A high chair in Rajkot. A high chair in Tramba. I have successfully established a multi-city dining network before my first birthday. Most days, I sit in my high chair like a responsible young gentleman. Other days, I reject formal dining entirely. On those days, I insist on sitting on the floor, face-to-face with Mumma. The same food. The same spoon. The same baby. Yet somehow the experience is completely different. I cannot explain it. I simply know what feels right.
Travel has become particularly entertaining. People often say babies don’t need much. Those people have clearly never travelled with my Mumma. A simple weekend trip now requires enough kitchen equipment to start a small catering business. Bowls. Spoons. Containers. Ingredients. Masher. Blender. Backup snacks. Emergency backup snacks. Backup snacks for the emergency backup snacks. At this point, I am fairly certain we carry more kitchen supplies than clothes.
As for me, I continue to enjoy most foods. However, there remains one important issue. Mumma seems eager for me to become independent and feed myself. I respectfully disagree. Why should I do the feeding when Mumma is already so good at it? I am happy to hold the food. I am happy to play with the food. I am happy to inspect the food. But when it comes to efficiently getting the food into my mouth, I strongly prefer professional assistance. Some call it dependence. I call it excellent customer service.
Of course, my responsibilities do not end once the meal is finished. Once I have eaten to my satisfaction, I dedicate myself to an equally important activity: creating a mess. A successful meal should leave evidence.
Food on the tray.
Food on the bib.
Food on the chair.
Food on Mumma.
Occasionally, food in my hair.
Sometimes, I look around at the end of a meal and wonder how so much of it ended up everywhere except where it was originally intended to go. The adults call it “messy eating.” I prefer to think of it as artistic expression. After all, how will future generations know I enjoyed my meal if I leave no trace behind?
So here we are. Almost two months into this adventure. Fifty foods tasted. Countless recipes tested. Several comfort foods discovered. A few dramatic rejections delivered. One entire family emotionally invested in my reactions. And a Mumma who now travels with half a kitchen wherever I go. I look forward to reporting back after the next fifty foods.
Until then,
Sharva
Chief Food Critic,
Texture Consultant,
Finger Food Intern,
Professional Mess Creator, and
Full-Time Recipient of Premium Feeding Services
