"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.

“Yes there is,” my husband says, but I’m distracted. In fact, I’m quite losing my composure; judge Monica Galetti is tasting shallots and I’m dying to taste them. Dying to be ‘hit in the mouth with big bangs of chickeny flavour like Monica, so that my eyes light up all soft and glowy with pleasure like hers.

“What could possibly be worse?” I ask my husband, when I’ve recovered. “Watching it when you’re hungry, and on a cholesterol-lowering diet,” he says.

The only thing worse than watching Masterchef in those conditions is watching it when it also happens to be your husband’s turn to cook.

The fact is, my husband, an excellent traditional cook, has been ‘branching out, and getting a bit more creative and adventurous in the kitchen, now that fat is off the menu,” — but I’m not keen on this ‘branching out’ — it seems to produce wildly incongruent results.

Naturally, as a woman who has never — and will never — discover the desire to ‘branch out’ — preferring instead to bang grains and greens on the table without a garnish in sight — I have to commend him, and commend him I will, just so long as I don’t have to eat aubergine.

“What are you making tonight?” I ask.

“Something I haven’t done before,” he says, “there wasn’t much in the fridge but it’s amazing what you can do with a bit of resourcefulness.”

“Do you mean resourcefulness, as in ‘ingenuity’? Or do you mean Chinese Five-Spice, from the back of the cupboard?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he says, “it’ll be ready in 15 minutes.”

I set about the business of waiting but Monica is going nuts for little whorls of crispy pork crackling and this makes the waiting very hard.

“I love this bit,” my husband says as a contestant puts down a plate of something chocolatey in front of the food critics.

“Mmmm,” I say, “rum cream and deeply-warming chocolate.”

“Mmmm,” says my husband, “caramelised banana.”

“Mmmm,” says the food critic, scarfing it down.

“This pudding is a work of art,” the critic says, “it makes you want to take it home, hang it on the wall and lick it off.”

“Lick it off the wall is right,” I agree, licking my lips.

“Mmmm,” my husband agrees, licking his.

Silence falls for a little while; hungry as we are, there’s very little you can say about cod-cheeks and salsify. Then my husband asks, “what the hell is manioc?”

“What does it matter what it is?” I say, “it’s cooked in butter and salt and served with chorizo which has juicy, fatty bits all around it.”

“You’re right,” my husband sighs, “what does it matter?”

“The trouble with cholesterol-lowering foods,” I say, while trying to identify an unfamiliar smell coming from the kitchen, “is that they all taste like they’re doing you the world of good. And sometimes you just want to eat something that does you the world of bad.”

“Like that you mean,” my husband says pointing at the television and disappearing into the kitchen.

“Yes,” I sigh, looking at the television, where William, the posh critic, has forgotten everything his mother ever told him about table manners and is tipping his bowl of aerated chocolate, dulce de leche and biscuity bits sideways, and scraping it out very noisily with a spoon.

My husband returns with two plates and two glasses of Montepulciano. He puts a plate in front of me.

I down half a glass of Montepulciano: the waiting has been hard but the seeing is terrible.

“What is it?” I ask, for I can only identify three ingredients. One of them is brussel sprouts.

“Roasted veg,” he says, “with just a tiny drizzle of olive oil.”

“What’s that slushy stuff at the bottom?”

“It’s delicious,” he says. “What’s delicious?” I say.

“Aubergine,” he says, “aubergine and Five Spice.”