Julie Bindel

When a press release for solar-powered sex toys popped into my inbox on 3 January, it dawned on me it could only mean one thing: we were already in the build-up to Valentine’s Day. A few days later, it was followed by the new aphrodisiac version of the Knorr stock cube, Knorrplay, and a set of champagne glasses adorned with red hearts. A couple of years ago I found myself overnight in Newcastle, with a male colleague. We were working hard on a harrowing story and decided a nice meal out would cheer us up. Not a chance in hell: neither of us had realised that the dreaded Valentine’s Day was upon us. Every single restaurant, from low-rent kebab joints right up to Michelin-starred gaffs, was full to the rafters with courting couples.

I love Italian food, and I love food writing and TV shows, so you might think I’d love Stanley Tucci. And yet I find him creepy and his recipes are rubbish. I can’t be the only one. The actor, who I first saw in the brilliant film Big Night, about a Jersey Shore Italian-American restaurant, is probably best known for The Devil Wears Prada, a film I adore. His character in that film did wind me up, but it took a while before Tucci himself got on my nerves. I suppose it began with him coming over all chef, like he’s the new Anthony Bourdain. I kept being told to watch his TV series where he travels around Italy, but the sight of his smug face on my screen turned out to be more than I could bear.

I love Italian food, and I love food writing and TV programmes, so you might think I’d love Stanley Tucci. And yet I find him creepy and his recipes are rubbish. I can’t be the only one. The actor, who I first saw in the brilliant film Big Night, about a Jersey Shore Italian-American restaurant, is probably best known for The Devil Wears Prada, a film I adore. His character in that film did wind me up, but it took a while before Tucci himself got on my nerves. I suppose it began with him coming over all cheffy, like he’s the new Anthony Bourdain. Who cares what Colin Firth eats when he’s round at the Tucci gaff? I kept being told to watch his TV series where he travels around Italy, but the sight of his smug face on my screen turned out to be more than I could bear.

I’m sure my mum would forgive me for saying this, but cooking is not one of her many strengths. Raising three children, and with a husband who worked shifts in a steel mill, she was feeding people round the clock, so cooking became a necessity rather than a pleasure – as it will have been for the majority of working-class women in the 1960s and 70s. Since this was before convenience food really hit the shelves, things were cooked from scratch, and in winter, steak and kidney suet pudding was on the menu in our house most weeks. As were liver and onions, mince and potato pies and anything else cheap and cheerful, usually involving lots of animal fat and parts. The sweet, creamy texture, gamey and pungent, was a delight.

The 1990s comedy series the Royle Family includes a perfect scene in which Barbara says she won’t bother getting a turkey the following year, as nobody actually likes it. Everyone looks horrified. But she’s right. Advocaat, mince pies, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake (especially the marzipan) cranberry sauce, and balls of sausage meat made into stuffing – there is a very good reason why we tend only to eat and drink certain things at Christmas. Never buy a cheese selection, because among the mediocre bits and pieces, there is bound to be some abomination That said, I am aware that certain ingredients are staples in some households. Boiled carrots and sprouts, for example, which – for some unknown reason – appear on Sunday lunch menus week in, week out.

My first Negroni was in a bar called Turandot, in a piazza in Lucca, Tuscany. It was the summer of 1996, and I noticed the waiter bringing out an intriguing-looking red liquid, served in a rocks glass over a large ice cube, and garnished with an orange slice. I had agreed to split a bottle of prosecco with my three holiday companions, despite hating the stuff. But it was a warm, lazy evening, the fizz was nice and cold, and a drink is a drink, after all. I asked the waiter to bring me whatever it was he was serving the other customers, and soon I was taking my first sip of what has since been my favourite pre-dinner cocktail. I can’t understand why there are so many bastardised variations. Why mess with perfection?

In a letter to Katie Morley, consumer champion for the Telegraph, CK from London explained that her £4,000 Smeg hob doesn’t work with her Le Creuset pans. She said she was ‘furious’ because she had renovated her kitchen and had a marble worktop cut to fit it. ‘Given the price tag, I expected it to work like a dream, but instead I am having some significant performance issues with it... I feel very badly let down, and I may have to report this to trading standards’. Induction is a bit like using an Aga but worse, because at least Agas can look attractive Why would anyone choose an induction hob over a gas stove top? It is the worst kitchen invention since electric carving knives and soda streams.

The first time I tried the well-known Hungarian wine Tokaj, which I bought from an eastern European delicatessen in London, I was so taken with it that it quickly became a verb – and the expression ‘I was a bit Tokaj’d last night’ stuck. But I soon realised that there are so many wonderful versions of this wine that you will find one to suit every occasion, and a match for pretty much anything you eat. Options include bone dry, light as a feather, sweet, robust, and tannin-rich red. And I’m lucky enough to be drinking the dry variety here in Budapest. It has just a hint of honey, making it perfect with the dishes made with cheese and paprika sauces that are so popular across this landlocked nation.