I grew up in the 1980s in a food-loving family in north London, where regrouping around the kitchen table each Friday night for roast chicken with bread stuffing was the order of play. Mum grew up in the 1950s in a vegetarian household so it was Dad who taught her the basics of meat cookery, referred to as the ‘roast chicken training years’. Despite his best intentions, she managed to roast a chicken with its bag of giblets inside on one of their first dates.
Sadly, Dad died suddenly and unexpectedly over Christmas 2015. Although I’m through the darkest days, the feeling of loss never diminishes. Ironically, two of the things that used to frustrate me most about him on a Friday night are now the ones