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.

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

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

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....Once the warm, salty butter has hit your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands.

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

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.

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

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.