Good kitchens are not about size; they are about ergonomics and light.

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you....Once the warm, salty butter has hit your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands.

Almost anything is edible with a dab of French mustard on it.

Real food meas big-flavoured, unpretentious cooking. Good ingredients made into something worth eating. Just nice, uncomplicated food.

British food is a celebration of comfort eating. Our traditional savoury recipes are all about warmth and sustenance, our puddings a roll call of sweet jollity, our cakes are deep and cosy. We appear to be a nation in need of a big, warm hug.

I cannot go any further without mentioning my favourite biscuit of all time, now sadly, tragically, extinct. The oaty, crumbly, demerara notes of the long-forgotten Abbey Crunch will remain forever on my lips. I loved the biscuit as much as anything I have ever eaten, and often, in moments of solitude, I still think about its warm, buttery, sugary self.

It must have been the lack of nutrients that gave my father his temper. He is not a sweet man despite a very sweet tooth.