I probably spend the equivalent amount of time men are supposed to think about sex, thinking about food. Dreamily recalling something delicious. Idly pondering what to cook later that day or checking through what’s in the fridge. I was talking to Sophie Orloff last week about her cooking, and she said she feels food does not benefit from travelling. A cabbage or a pig should be eaten close to home. I’ve been thinking about this, and it triggered a memory of the freshest soup I ever made. It was for friends as we travelled back from Glastonbury. We’d had a great time, but collectively felt grubby, exhausted and depleted from lack of sleep, strange eating habits and even stranger substances imbibed. We were near my parents’ house, and decided to stop for showers and something to eat. Mum and dad were away, but the key was easily found under a plant pot. They lived in a remote smallholding, recently bought from an elderly couple, who had been almost self-sufficient. As a consequence, there was a magnificent vegetable garden, albeit one in which the deer and rabbit population vied for first dibs. After sloshing some Somerset mud off in the shower, I went digging in some Berkshire mud to forage for food. Young carrots came to hand, and there were lots of beans. Strung up in the woodshed were some onions, which I cut up and fried. I then added the rest of the vegetables washed and chopped, simmering gently in water to make the simplest of soups. With nothing more than salt and pepper added, the freshness of the ingredients sang from the bowls. It was like being cleansed and revived from the inside. Liquid sanity.