I wear the trousers in my house. My beau, male housemate and always-around brother are happy to humour my whims and adhere to my orders. On top of this, I’m a little slutty when it comes to cleanliness. I leave the hoovering, scrubbing and polishing to my far more house-proud (and thoroughly modern) men. I’m telling you all this so I don’t sound horribly out-dated when I admit: I like to cook for the boys. I take pleasure in winning their hearts through their stomachs. My boys (and this seems to be a theme) like simple food that’s hearty, meaty and just a little bit retro. So this weekend I spoilt them. It all started with the FA cup final, a mound of pork pies, chutney and a pot of Yorkshire tea. Later I rustled up a lasagne, rich with beef and red wine, oozing with béchamel sauce and mature cheddar. The following day I treated them to maple-glazed gammon, mustard mash, spring greens and parsley sauce, made with herbs picked from the garden. Plates were licked clean. I was worshipped. I don’t have to touch a mop for another week. Job done.
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