On cheese and a certain cheese-lover

Some buy flowers, chocolate, a trinket, perhaps. I show my love with cheese.

It was not always this way. Indeed, the rubbery, insipid stuff consumed during my 1980s suburban childhood, and the low-fat abomination I favoured during my calorie-conscious college years, would have been as pathetic a token of affection as the free plastic mugs sometimes on offer at 7-11.

There were missteps as well, most notably the palate-burning (pavement-eating?) hockey puck of goats milk--aka the cheese of mass destruction--which I proudly brought home from Borough for our first holidays together. The problems of odiferousness have not been entirely overcome, though I have found that expensive hand wash does much to counter the smell of barn.

But it could only have been love that induced me to share my astounding cheese course at Gordon Ramsay. And while I've never had lobster or caviar, I can't imagine anything more perfectly decadent (or romantic, excepting the stinky fingers) than a midnight feast for two of Munster, duck terrine and late-harvest Alsace gewurtztramminer.

So, to the man with an unerring palate, who changed my life in more ways than one when he stood with me in front of the glass counter at the Oxford Cheese Company, happy birthday. I hope that my adventures in the land of 246 cheeses always bring me back to you. I won't arrive empty-handed.

On food shopping

Last year, my time spent scouring the winter sales landed me the following bargains. At Harvey Nicks, London's answer to Barney's, I scored a can of mispriced Ortiz ventresca tuna. Liberty's, the quirky, classy, designer haven, yielded up a bottle of Oliviers & Co. sherry vinegar. My final visit, to the vast expanses of Selfridges, forced an impulse buy. A bespoke bag of my favourite jelly beans (the banana, peanut butter and watermelon flavours, all underrepresented in the standard mixes) was the only thing that kept me from bursting into tears in the middle of women's sportswear.

Simultaneously in search of luxury (thank you, grandma) and bargains (thank you, mom), and with a backside somewhat larger than the rest of my size 0 self, I am not a very successful clothing shopper. So while I await the arrival of J.Crew in London and attempt a new jogging regimen (once prodigious, it has been replaced in recent years by an equally prodigious cheese-eating regimen), my consumer impulses invariably send me in the direction of the nearest food or wine retailer.

Here at least, I am rarely thwarted. With an Aladdin's cave of a European deli just down the road, a job on the city's best Parisian-style food shopping street and the possibility of a weekly sojourn to the justifiably renowned Borough Market, I've ample opportunity to pay homage to both maternal influences. In the last two days alone, our larder has gained the following:

• 2 creamy crottin du chevre, sold by a charming, if incomprehensible, purveyor at Borough
• delicate, slightly scraggly new season rhubarb, which was stewed with a handful of frozen raspberries (we give this the elegant moniker pink goo)
• very dirty, sweet-smelling dwarf parsnips
• a bargain bowlful of blood oranges, which I hope are bloodier than their plain-as-as-navel exteriors suggest
• a bag of the city's best truffles, only slightly irregular
• my first ever dried beans, bought with pocket change and used to make this
• two slices of fantastically succulent bresaola, the ideal complement to a not-so-small glass of amontillado
• a bottle of lush, lemony Vermentino, which paired with anchovy and rosemary-topped hake (did I mention the intimidatingly tattooed local fishmonger?) to make the best high-low meal of the weekend

I happened upon hake, and Sophie Grigson's fantastic recipe for it, this fall. Without question, this is the best fish dish I've ever made.

Hake with Anchovies and Rosemary (adapted from Fish to serve 2)

Total time: 45 minutes; Active time: 15 minutes

1-2 cleaned hake (heads left on, please), totalling about 1 1/2 pounds; 5 anchovy fillets, rinsed if salt-packed; 3-4 tbsp olive oil; 2 cloves garlic; 3-4 full sprigs fresh rosemary; 1 handful bread crumbs, ideally fresh and coarse; lemon; salt and pepper

Heat the oven to 350. Place the cleaned fish snugly in a lightly-oiled, oven and broiler-proof dish. Stick at least 1 rosemary sprig inside the cavity(ies). While the oven heats, gently heat olive oil, chop the anchovies and fry gently. When they have nearly melted (3-5 minutes), add the garlic, coarsely chopped, frying for another minute before removing from the heat. Pour this mixture over the fish, reserving a bit for the insides. Chop the remaining rosemary, mix with the bread crumbs and place on top, trying to cover the surface area fully. (Concentrate on the area surrounding the backbone, not the cavity.) Sprinkle with salt and pepper and place in oven. The fish will likely take about 30 minutes to cook through and colour; you may choose to baste mid-way through with the excess oil in the pan. If the fish feels done but the crumbs have not yet browned, place the dish briefly (2-3 minutes max) under the broiler.

This is difficult to serve neatly. In my experience, it's preferable to portion it directly from the dish, adding lemon juice and additional salt and pepper to taste.

On not eating

This morning I received an email informing me that an old acquaintance had died. According to the obituary, contributions should be directed to the National Eating Disorders Association.

It is always sobering to learn of a death, particularly that of a near-contemporary. Yet as I reflected on the news, I recalled a comment made by Nigella Lawson. It was perversely cruel, she noted, that her the preparation of one of her early cookbooks had coincided with the final decline of her then-husband John. Dying of throat cancer, he had been unable to eat anything that she was testing.

I have been lucky to be sheltered from the grim realities of anorexia and bulimia. I can claim no meaningful or original insight into how these diseases overtake, and in some cases, destroy lives. The one thing which perhaps I understand is the unadulterated pleasure which can come from the preparation and consumption of food. In an altogether different way, I may also appreciate the time and energy which goes into being obsessed with it. What I cannot fathom is how the thing which has given me such great joy and fulfillment was also the source of so much pain and unhappiness for another.

As I write this, dinner is on the stove. It promises to be a good one. Yet tonite, at least, it is difficult to summon up the joy.

On the (mis)use of chopsticks

It is the same in every Chinese restaurant. Just as inevitable as the appearance of a nondescript pot of tea is the question, delivered with a downward glance and what I imagine to be a hint of a smirk: would you like a fork?

Yesterday was a bit different. We were offered a selection of teas, from which we chose an amber-coloured, pleasantly bitter brew. The servers also appeared to be having some fine motor skill difficulties of their own, each spilling a bit of the tea which they were so prompt to pour. And the predictable query came as I was tackling a dish--a stolid, if satisfying, pan-fried turnip cake--whose size and texture made it suitable for advanced chopstick users only.

When it comes to eating Asian food, a bit more manual dexterity would not go amiss (I could at least figure out how to hold the chopsticks between the right fingers), if only to ensure that I get my fair share of repasts like these.

There were plump steamed scallop dumplings, their creaminess punctuated by slivers of ginger, unpromisingly named pork and radish dumplings, overflowing with peanuts and herbs, pert pink prawns enrobed in a greaseless, beignet-like batter, and smoky grilled quails, so tender that their poor little bones practically melted underneath our teeth. Even the turnip, though perhaps better shared by a larger party, had its stomach-lining place.

With my wallet only £10 lighter, I emerged into the bright sunshine (no, really) with two belated resolutions for the New(ish) Year: more dim sum (particularly here) and remedial chopstick lessons.

While I'm at it, can anyone show me how to twirl spaghetti?