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.

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.

You can’t smell a hug. You can’t hear a cuddle. But if you could, I reckon it would smell and sound of warm bread-and-butter pudding.

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

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

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

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

No matter how bad things get, it’s impossible not to love someone who made you toast. Once you’ve been through that crusty surface to the soft underneath and tasted the warm, salty butter you’ll last forever.

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.

Nichts ist so nützlich und vielseitig wie ein kaltes Brathühnchen.