Sunday evening, and elderly relatives are in the sitting room with a bottle. A chicken is roasting in the ancient gas oven, making reassuringly hot exploding sounds. Maris Peer potatoes are dancing in the pan with the carrots, and the spinach is picked ready to be given the treatment with some butter at the last minute.
My mum has brought me a bag of gooseberries from her garden and I’m making a crumble. It’s a bit hit and miss, as I decide to make it up, but turns out perfectly sour-sweet, crumbly-gooey. Just as a pudding should. Served with heaps of custard, of course.