The UK government has launched its first review of school food standards in over a decade, alongside plans to extend free school meals to an additional 500,000 children in families receiving universal credit.

Much of the coverage has focused on specific menu changes, including the possible removal of sugary desserts such as steamed sponge. The focus on such changes might be reflective of how school food has never been only about nutrition for those who have experienced it. It is also about welfare, discipline, pleasure, stigma and care.

The School Meals Service: Past, Present – and Future? is a project I worked on that brings together archival research, oral histories and ethnographic work in schools across the UK. We were also the principal academic partner for the Food Museum’s ongoing School Dinners exhibition near Ipswich, which explores the changing history of school meals through objects, menus, memories and tastes – from semolina and sponge pudding to Turkey Twizzlers.

Since school meals were first introduced in legislation in 1906, they have changed repeatedly. Early provision was patchy and often associated with charity. After the 1944 Education Act, school meals became part of the postwar welfare settlement, intended to provide children with a nutritious meal during the school day.

For decades, the classic image of the school dinner was “meat and two veg”, followed by puddings such as sponge, semolina, rice pudding, jam roly-poly or custard.

From the 1980s, the provision of school meals became more fragmented. Nutritional standards were removed, local authorities had more freedom, and commercial catering reshaped menus. Later debates around Turkey Twizzlers and processed food, driven by people like celebrity chef Jamie Oliver, were part of this longer story. Today’s government review of school food standards is another chapter in that history.

What children remember

When people recall school dinners, they rarely talk about calories or guidelines. They remember texture, smell and noise.

Joanne, who attended school in Surrey and East Yorkshire from the late 1960s to 1980, described being served vegetables she could not eat: “Mush. Cold … you can’t have that unless you eat your beans … it put me off for life.”

The dining hall mattered as much as the food. Ella, who went to school in Rotherham from 1996 to 2010, remembered the anxiety of a space where “someone would puke and I would freak out … I can’t be in here”. Lauren, who attended schools in Northumbria and Merseyside from 1998 to 2012, recalled mashed potato that “you could pick up with a fork and it would just stick”.

Stigma, inequality and school food

School meals could also expose inequality. Free school meals have long been a vital safety net, but they have also carried stigma.

Joyce, who went to school in Glasgow in the 1960s, remembered the teacher calling children forward with the phrase “come out the frees”. She described it as “the walk of shame”.

Naomi, who attended school in Birmingham in the 1980s, showed how this could intersect with racism. Her mother paid for school meals despite financial strain because she worried Naomi might be singled out: “there weren’t many Black kids in my school”.

Yet school dinners were also remembered with affection. For many people, puddings such as sponge and custard were the best part of the day. For others they evoke control, compulsion or, like for Joyce and Naomi, embarrassment. That is why the removal of steamed sponge resonates. It is not just dessert. It is part of a shared national memory.

Beyond the menu

The Food Museum exhibition captures this complexity. Visitors encounter the familiar foods, but also the people behind them: pupils, parents, cooks, dinner staff, teachers and policymakers.

The exhibition, which has been shortlisted for a 2026 Museums and Heritage Award, draws directly on our research into how school meals changed over time and why those changes mattered socially, economically and culturally.

Today’s reforms emphasise healthier ingredients, more fruit and vegetables, fewer fried foods and less sugar. These aims matter. History and our research suggests what is served matters. So do the dining hall, the queue, the noise, the payment system, the stigma, the pleasure and the memories children carry into adulthood.

School dinners are one of the most widely shared experiences of British childhood. As they continue to evolve it is worth considering not just what is on the plate, but how it feels to eat it.

The School Dinners Exhibition is on at the Food Museum in Suffolk until February 21 2027

Heather Ellis received ESRC funding for The School Meals Service: Past, Present – and Future? project

To mark International Dawn Chorus day we’ve asked wildlife experts to make their case for why their favourite songbird deserves your vote. Cast your vote in the poll at the end of the article and let us know why in the comments. We hope their words will inspire you to step outside and soak up some birdsong this spring.

Song thrush

Championed by Cannelle Tassin de Montaigu, Research Fellow in Ecology and Evolution, University of Sussex

When people talk about the UK’s best bird songs they often go straight for the big names – loud, dramatic performers that grab your attention. But quietly in the background is the song thrush, a bird whose song is far more impressive than it first appears.

What sets the song thrush apart is not volume or flair, but structure. Its song is built from short, clear phrases, each repeated two or three times before moving on. It’s as if the bird is politely checking that its audience is paying attention. In a dawn chorus that often feels a bit chaotic, there’s something refreshingly organised about it. It’s a bird that’s actually thought things through.

It might not have the dramatic flair of the common nightingale, and it’s less showy than some of the usual favourites. There are no soaring crescendos or dramatic flourishes. But that’s part of its charm. The song is neat, rhythmic and surprisingly memorable once you start listening for it.

In the early morning soundscape, where many birds seem determined to out-sing one another, the song thrush isn’t trying to steal the spotlight. It just quietly does its thing, and does it very well. Underrated? Definitely. Worth your vote? I’d say so.

Robin

Championed by Judith Lock, Principal Teaching Fellow in Ecology and Evolution University of Southampton

The European robin is a delightfully common sight in gardens. You will very likely have heard the characteristic “tic”, followed by a tuneful verse lasting a few seconds. In noisy urban environments they sing louder, less complex songs, in order to be heard.

The male robins use their spring song (January to June) to signal their quality to females, then forming breeding pairs, and to signal competitive ability to other males. The spring song lasts one to three seconds, composed of four to six short motifs. They have an impressive repertoire of about 1,300 motifs, indicating that song is the particularly important for robins, in comparison to birds that rely more on colourful plumage or behavioural displays to communicate with each other.

Most birds sing mainly in the morning but robins sing all day. People often mistake their lovely evening song for a nightingale’s. Constant territory defence from non-migrating robins means that the robin song is a year-round soundtrack too. From July to December, both males and females sing the autumn song, of higher-pitched long, descending notes, with interspersed warbles. This song is to defend their individual winter territories. This indicates that song first evolved first in songbirds to ensure survival, before it became a signal used by males for reproduction. Each robin’s song is dynamic, constantly changing in response to the condition and age of the bird, and their rival.

Great tit

Championed by Josh Firth, Associate Professor of Behavioural Ecology, University of Leeds

Its song may not be as flashy as the nightingale or as poetically melancholy as the blackbird. But scientists have been taught so much by the great tit’s song, heard across British habitats from ancient woodlands to urban gardens. This spring marks 80 continuous years of UK-based scientists studying great tits at Wytham Woods, Oxford, the world’s longest-running study of individually-marked animals.

The unique dataset includes a family tree totaling over 100,000 great tits, with some birds’ lineages traceable back 37 generations. Early research on Wytham’s great tits during 1970s-1980s resulted in some the first studies to inform the scientific world about how bird song can help males find mates and defend territories, how larger song repertoires can bring more reproductive success, and how young birds learn these repertoires from neighbours (not just their fathers).

And a pioneering study published in 1987 taught us how male great tit song even tracks female fertility, increasing their singing efforts as their female partner’s egg-laying period approaches, and then quietening after she starts laying. Modern technological advances are allowing insight into the hidden meaning embedded in great tits’ songs. In-depth processing of 109,000 recordings of great tit songs has revealed how each bird’s melody tells the story of their own identity as well as that of their local culture and social circles.

A great tit’s age also affects their song: older males keep singing rarer, fading song types while younger birds adopt newer ones. So, Britain’s greatest song belongs to the great tit’s “teacher-teacher” call, for all it has taught us, and for all we have left to learn.

Chaffinch

Championed by Joey Baxter, PhD Candidate in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology, University of Sheffield

Why change a winning formula? As far as I’m concerned, the chaffinch sings the biggest banger that UK birds have to offer. While the blackcap attempts to impress with ostentatious bells and whistles, the chaffinch keeps things simple with a catchy riff. Where the starling goes for quantity and novelty, with a frankly plagiaristic repertoire of mimicry, the chaffinch goes for quality, singing proudly in the knowledge that it is delivering a true earworm.

Bubbling trills accelerate before tumbling downwards, slowing to rich watery chirps and finishing with the final flourish. This jaunty lick, the real hook of the song, is often punctuated by an upward inflection at its end, the rising intonation giving it the air of an unanswered question. The chaffinch’s song has rhythm, it has melody, and it’s instantly recognisable. It possesses the wisdom that sometimes it is better not to do everything, but to do one thing well.

Joey Baxter receives funding from UK Research & Innovation (UKRI), via the Engineering and Physical Sciences Research Council (EPSRC).

Josh Firth receives from UK Research & Innovation (UKRI), via the Natural Environment Research Council (NERC).

Cannelle Tassin de Montaigu and Judith Lock do not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and have disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.