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

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.

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

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

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

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