"Lick it off the wall is right," I agree, licking my lips

HOME, 8pm, and we’re watching Masterchef. “Lucky judges,” I say, “never mind the pickled cauliflower — it would be worth having to taste them just for those shallots.”

“Crispy shallots,” my husband says, looking ever so wistful, “basted in spitting-hot chicken fat.”

“There is no worse torment than watching Masterchef when you’re hungry,” I say.