Yotam Ottolenghi

My dad makes food with very few delicate flavours.

Dad likes my food, but he probably thinks it's too busy. He is a wonderful cook but only uses three ingredients. My mum rips out my articles and makes my recipes.

The teaching thing, the one where I have to impart my knowledge, is probably what comes the least naturally to me because I'm an absorber of things.

I always preferred my father's pasta the next day, when he'd put it in a hot oven with heaps of extra cheese. It would emerge slightly burned and very crisp on top.

One man's trash is another man's treasure, and the by-product from one food can be perfect for making another.

The smells of slow cooking spread around the house and impart a unique warmth matched only by the flavour of the food.

Food that's served at the table in a paper parcel always creates a remarkable culinary moment when opened, because the package is full of aromatic steam from the lightly cooked ingredients inside.

Braising eggs in a flavoursome, aromatic sauce is all the rage. It is warming and comforting, ideal for the morning when you are not normally up for a great culinary challenge.

Way back when I was a junior pastry chef, I'd bake loads of muffins every morning, as many as 120 or so, while operating on autopilot.

For me, the end of childhood came when the number of candles on my birthday cake no longer reflected my age, around 19 or 20. From then on, each candle came to represent an entire decade.

I have a terrible tendency to lick my fingers when I cook. So much so that I got a telling off from my pastry teacher years ago, who said it would hinder my prospects.

Apart from its famous healing properties, manuka has a strong, woody flavour.

For those, like me, who can't rely on being given a home smoker this Christmas, you can build your own approximation with just a roll of tin foil and a big wok or pan for which you have a lid.

Tiny quails may not seem as impressive as a mammoth turkey, but there is something refreshing about a spread of individual birds on the Christmas table.

It is more than twenty years since we left the city. This is a serious chunk of time, longer than the years we spent living there. Yet we still think of Jerusalem as our home. Not home in the sense of the place that you conduct your daily life or constantly return to. In fact, Jerusalem is our home almost against our wills. It is our home because it defines us, whether we like it or not.