THE FLAVOR BEHIND THE FOOD

A shop-bought pie squashed flat in Fort Lauderdale, a lottery ticket tucked into a golden charger, and the Thanksgiving that finally taught an Englishman what the holiday is for.

Mrs. Rawlinson, a squeaky white gate on Barford Road, and a turkey pie that taught a grieving fourteen-year-old the patience I still cook with.

From ancient Roman roads to a ripe summer tomato, a love letter to the most extraordinary ordinary ingredient in our kitchens.

Saturday nights on Howden Drive: a record and a bottle, a meter that ran out mid-song, and the sausage roll I hid for Sunday morning.