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.

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

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.

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

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

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

I understood that if ever one wanted to live with someone you cooked for them and they came running. But then it is my idea of hell these days, living with someone. The idea of sharing your life with someone is just utterly ghastly. I know why people do it, but it's never a good idea.

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

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