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.

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

Pamper a tomato, overfeed it, overwater it and you will get a Paris Hilton of a tomato.

Well let's face it, who on earth besides antique dealers and gay couples actually still give dinner parties?

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

Food is, for me, for everybody, a very sexual thing and I think I realised that quite early on. I still cannot exaggerate how just putting a meal in front of somebody is really more of a buzz for me than anything. And I mean anything. Maybe that goes back to trying to please my dad, I don't know. It's like parenting in a way I suppose.

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