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

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.

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.

There is too much talk of cooking being an art or a science – we are only making ourselves something to eat.

It is the deep, salty stickiness of food that intrigues me more than any other quality.

Food has been my career, my hobby, and, it must be said, my escape.

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.