When I left home, I couldn’t boil an egg. I could make a ham and cheese toast and heat a can of soup, but that was about it.

This was despite the fact that my mom was an excellent cook and, as you would expect from a 1970s housewife, she regularly had elaborate dinners to entertain her friends. Our kitchen table was full of pies, pies and cakes every Thursday – baking day – and we ran from school to home, knowing that treats were waiting for us.

My grandfather, who lived with us, had a sweet tooth. So many scones, Bakewell pies and fruit cakes were meant for him as his daughter spoiled him at dusk. We ate well – fresh, home cooked food every day with no packaging or take out in sight.


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