E is for Edam
It’s the last thing I hear at night and the first every morning.
‘Edam, Edam, Edam.’ Like an alarm clock.
I go into Elliot’s room, and throw open the Thomas the Tank Engine curtains. Light barges in and he rubs his eyes, strawberry-blond curls twisting and shaking, like ghosts on a funfair ride. I begin my imaginary conversation. One of many I’ll have that day.
Me: What a beautiful day!
Elliott: Edam, Edam.
Me: Yes I did hear the rain last night. What a storm! It’ll do the garden good though.
Elliott: Edam, Edam.
Me: I need to mow the lawn. Roses could do with a prune too.
Elliott: Edam, Edam, Edam, Edam.
Me: Later … how about breakfast?
Elliott: Edam!
As well as being obsessed with the word Edam, Elliott is obsessed with the food itself. It began when he was four years old. I was back from the supermarket, unpacking the groceries. Ethan was in his highchair, tunelessly humming, while pulverising banana in his fists. I pulled the shiny red ball out of my Waitrose bag. He froze. His sapphire eyes popped. He air-grabbed at the crimson sphere with his banana sodden hands, flicking chunks of pale yellow mush across the kitchen. A splattering went across the bills I’d left on the kitchen table, a blob stuck to the overhead spotlights, and dollop on the Alexa speaker I thought I had safely stowed away on top of the fridge.
With its shiny coating, I figured he thought it was a toy. ‘Food,’ I said.
He squawked, wriggling in the highchair.
‘Not toy. Food.’ I mimed eating.
The squawking became screaming. The feet of the highchair rocked up off the floor.
I cut out a chunk, peeled off the red wax, and gave it to him. Most food, especially anything new, was usually hurled back in my face. This time he fell silent. He prodded the fermented amber, gave it a small lick with the tip of his tongue, then threw it into his mouth. Closing his eyes he chomped the cheesy delicacy. After swallowing, the squawking fired up again, grubby fingers once more grabbing. He ate half the ball in that one sitting.
I tried (and failed) to get eye contact, as the speech therapist had directed. Holding up the cheese I slowly said: ‘Edam.’ I wasn’t expecting a response. For years I’d been trying to get eye contact while saying simple words. Never had it once elicited anything. This time he looked at me, and clear as a desert night sky, said: ‘Edam.’
If I’d had a chair I’d have fallen off it. Instead I knocked a box of eggs on the floor, which mixed with the mashed banana as I danced around the room. ‘Yes darling, Edam! It’s Edam!’ I grabbed his face and kissed his banana smudged cheek. He pushed me away and yelled: ‘Edam!’
At that point I was still living in a fantasy world. I still thought my child would one day do the things other children do. It felt like a landmark moment. A day to go down in family history. A day to remember when showing Elliott’s future girlfriend his baby photos, recounting the funny moment when he said his first word. We’d busted through the damn. He’d said a word. Surely others would follow. It was only a matter of time. I called my mother. I WhatsApped my sister. I emailed the speech therapist. We laughed, we cried and said everything would be different now.
Then nothing. Nothing except for Edam. Edam, day and night, over and over and over again. Edam, Edam, Edam. I asked him to stop. Pleaded with him to stop. Screamed at him to stop. I wept and begged while lying on the kitchen floor as he sat in his highchair eating Edam.
Eventually, I told my mother she needed to take him for a bit because if I heard the word Edam one more time I’d lose my mind. I drove to the Travelodge car park, and cried for about an hour. Then I drove home for more Edam.
When Elliott wasn’t barking Edam, he was eating it. For five weeks he ate nothing else. That landed us in A&E, where I learnt new words, like faecal impaction. I got looks from doctors that said: ‘What kind of mother only feeds her son cheese?’ If they’d asked me, I would’ve said: ‘The kind of mother who knows her son will otherwise starve himself.’
‘They wouldn’t believe you anyway,’ said one of the mums at the autism support group. ‘They‘d go on about boundaries, because they’ve never spent a day in our shoes.’
That same mum taught me the bargaining technique – a piece of Edam in exchange for eating a chicken nugget or a carrot stick or multi-vitamin. Gradually, we reached a compromise. The calories came back on, energy levels rose, and he was weaned off the Movicol. One day I’ll go on The Apprentice and say: ‘Lord Sugar, if I can negotiate a nutritionally balance diet with my non-verbal, autistic, Edam-obsessed son, then I can work a deal with your market traders.’
A few months after Edam entered our lives, something unexpected happened. I stopped hearing it. That is, I heard it, but only in the way you hear the rumble of your washing machine in the next room. A little while later I noticed something else - small changes in the way he said Edam. The high-pitched ‘E-E-E-Edam’ when he was excited or scared. The wispy, wavy ‘Edaaaammmm’ as he was drifting off to sleep. And the demanding ‘EDAM!’ at mealtimes.
The health visitor came. Her uniform was neatly pressed and smelt new, but her mascara was smudged. ‘How do you communicate?’ she asked.
I shrugged. ‘We don’t really.’ I knew it wasn’t completely true, but I don’t think she was ready to hear: ‘We communicate through Edam.’
ESTHER FREEMAN works part-time as a social historian, specialising in women's history. She does public education work including running podcasts, workshops, and writing her Substack newsletter Missing from History. Her debut nonfiction book Great Women of London: A History of the Rebels who Inspired Others will be published by Pen & Sword in 2026.
