I’ve long said that if I were about to be executed and were given a choice of my last meal, it would be bacon and eggs.

I have had, in my time, memorable meals of scrambled eggs with fresh truffles, scrambled eggs with caviar and other glamorous things, but to me, there are few things as magnificent as scrambled eggs, pure and simple, perfectly cooked and perfectly seasoned.

Hands are our earliest tools. Cooking starts with the hands which are so sensitive that when they touch something they transmit messages to your brain about texture and temperature.

In a house without a genuine kitchen, one of the delights of growing up is lost.

It is true thrift to use the best ingredients available and to waste nothing.

The kitchen, reasonably enough, was the scene of my first gastronomic adventure. I was on all fours. I crawled into the vegetable bin, settled on a giant onion and ate it, skin and all. It must have marked me for life, for I have never ceased to love the hearty flavor of raw onions.

I’ve long said that if I were about to be executed and were given a choice of my last meal, it would be bacon and eggs.