I consider myself a reasonably tolerant chap, a man in the breezy, crumbling late autumn of his life who, despite his years, manages to exercise restraint and not insist on having things his way.

Except for the kitchen. The kitchen is my dominion.

Years ago, a very good friend came to spend Christmas with us. On Boxing Day, while my ex-wife enjoyed a book in the back room, my friend, fuelled by what I recall was four bottles of wine, volunteered to cook lunch. The result was a culinary masterpiece—a very small but excellent dish of salmon in some kind of sauce. The casualty list, however, was long and grim. Every single pot, pan, and utensil we owned was deployed, and a significant portion of various sauces and liquids seemed to have landed on every surface, including the floor, creating a scene that could only be described as a robbery gone wrong or perhaps a particularly abstract piece of modern art.

Having lived alone for the past decade, I’ve had the great luxury of indulging my admittedly radical and selfish tactic: cleaning as I go. The truth is, I simply cannot enjoy a meal with the looming dread of a kitchen that resembles a Bruegel painting. And since we’re in a confessional mood, let’s talk about the washing up. It doesn’t go directly into the sink. It goes into the dedicated washing-up bowl, which has its own sacred spot next to the sink. And the cutlery? That, my friends, is separated out and placed in its own container. A concept my daughter, on her increasingly rare visits, has yet to grasp, despite numerous gentle reminders. We live in hope.

So, it was with some trepidation that my partner and I decided to embark on the grand adventure of cooking together. She is, I’ll admit, a fantastic cook, though she comes with her own special set of rules—more on that another time.

The initial sessions were, let’s just say, a diplomatic mission. I’d spend my time stealthily retrieving bowls, jars, and bags of ingredients that had completed their mission and were now loitering on the counter. I’d rescue items from the sink and, with the quiet grace of a ninja, sort the cutlery into its proper container.

No harsh words were exchanged, only a very civilised conversation that ended in a truce: my way of kitchen order was acknowledged as “best,” and in return, I would accept that one can never, under any circumstances, serve an odd number of crumpets.

And so, the kitchen is now a place of tranquility. Cooking a meal together is something to be genuinely enjoyed and looked forward to, a culinary partnership where everything, finally, has its place.