Rosemary's ham

How many recipes, I wonder, are said to come from the author's grandmother? Hundreds of thousands, perhaps. One pictures a white-haired old lady stirring a bowl of cake mixture, following a secret recipe which, perhaps came from her own grandmother. My first memory of home-cooked ham came from my grandmother. She would spike it with cloves, boil it and smother it in some unknown brown spice, and we would eat it over several days, accompanied by salad: lettuce, washed and dried in a salad spinner; hard-boiled egg, sliced in an egg slicer; cucumber with the peel chopped off; tomatoes which were sometimes skinned; beetroot in vinegar; spring onions; sometimes a tiny bowl of potato salad. There was salad cream in those days, although as the seventies turned into the eighties, she gradually switched to mayonnaise. Olive oil was used only rarely, for extra-special salad dressings, made in a vinaigrette and shaken vigorously before each meal. Slices of brown bread. Once upon a time I would have eaten the last ever slice of ham which had been cooked by her, but, like many firsts and lasts, I cannot pinpoint that moment.

Poached eggs on ham

Breakfast or brunch. Three elements: buttered toast; a thick slice of ham; a perfectly-poached egg on the top, with freshly ground black pepper. This used to be a Christmas morning tradition and I can recall it being followed in Winchester ten years ago. My brother Will had cooked the ham, baked the bread and poached the eggs. He had not supplied the newly-laid eggs, though; they had been brought by me, a parting gift the day before from some friends who kept chickens in their garden. Crumbly home-cooked ham. Orange egg yolks. A very late breakfast after church. A good start to the excesses of Christmas.

Chez Bruno

My earliest experiences of French restaurants were of the cheap variety: often (although maybe it was the holiday mode speaking) far far cheaper and far far better than their English counterparts. It was only relatively recently that I started to sample some of the exceptional places, with prices to match. One of them was Chez Bruno, near a town called Lorgues, in Provençe. I was staying with Cousin Pen and this was intended as a "thank you". She was reluctant to accept the invitation and talked darkly of Bruno receiving guests who arrived by helicopter from Italy. I could not resist it. So we went one Sunday lunchtime.

Memories of our meal include: choosing which type of truffle to have from a “truffle menu”; I had no idea; nor did Pen, who left it to me; and I picked one that was neither the most expensive nor the cheapest; there followed a whole truffle in pastry; with the main course we had a kind of Gratin Dauphinoise with truffle (which Pen, rightly, raved about long afterwards) and, to finish, chocolate mousse (also with truffle) which was very good. It all left us feeling a little dazed. Bruno himself came into the darkened dining room and circulated among the guests. His greeting to us was somewhat perfunctory but the meal he had provided us with was one whose highlights I can remember fifteen years later.