In early 2007 I’d entered a competition. ‘Win a £20,000 Book Deal’ said Waitrose Food Illustrated on its cover. And, inside, our beloved Nigel Slater made a plea for a new food writer: someone who would give even him a run for his money (yeah, right). Encouraged by family and friends I entered, along with 2500 others. We had to write a piece on what made us love food — and include at least one original recipe. Having found out I was in the last sixteen, a full book proposal (with more recipes) was the next hurdle. And then there were only three of us left. It was time to meet the judges. I am sure I made a wonderful impression: I tripped over the step on entry, accidentally dropped my bag on the floor and then gabbled for Britain. Hardly winner material.

But, somehow, win it I did. The phrase about pinching oneself suddenly made perfect sense; mystifyingly I had entered a world where dreams do come true. Since I was a child I have longed to write and, having married the Vicar, this wish morphed into a passion for creating recipes and writing them down. It isn’t that I am a rabid foodie (well, okay, maybe a bit). It’s more that I love to celebrate the people in my life with suitable food. Perhaps the Cousin is round after a hard day at work, crying out for a bowl of comforting and creamy pasta. Or The Vicar has his mates over for rugby-watching, beer and some appropriately solid fare. Or maybe it’s dinner with hitherto strangers: the food needs to be something that brings cohesion, a talking point. Rabbit legs in rosé anyone? Choosing food that pleases, something that comforts, calms or changes our state of mind; what a privilege to offer that to those we love.

I confess it hasn’t been easy, the whole book-writing palaver. A sensitive soul, my emotions have risen and fallen like the tides. I dreamt about the book at night and ingredients floated round my brain like flotsam. The Vicar would wake at two in the morning to find me scribbling down a particularly delicious combination. The cooking, the writing, the thinking made me feel I was on the edge of madness. But then, serving up something I had dreamt up — to people I adore — would put the smile back on my face. And writing about the dear friends I cooked for made me smile even more.