Food in our house was wholesome but very plain. It was fuel, and if you didn’t like it you went hungry. I remember with the demise of the fire oven on our Yorkshire range, my mother got a De La Rue gas cooker. With it came a cookery book which my mother never even opened, but I did and was mesmerised by the recipes for such things as coq au vin, hunters chicken, Hungarian goulash, curry and other foreign delights we had never heard of and were totally unable to source the ingredients for anyway. We never bought wine for drinking, let alone cooking, and spices like paprika, and herbs other than parsley and sage, were unheard of. We didn’t eat between meals, except for a treat we were sometimes allowed a bag of chips on the way home from the cinema at the weekend.