Why would anyone deep-fry a grape? And why sun-dry a tomato? Then consider the patty pan: A nasty little tasteless veg that even when doused in garlic manages to triumph over the seasoning.
When I was 12 years old, I read that a man or woman condemned to die for a crime was given a last meal of their choice. Morbidly, I wondered what I would choose before going to the gallows should I murder Sister Monica, the demon nun at my school, and I settled on steak, egg and chips.
Nothing has changed. I am still a steak, egg and chips girl. But I married a foodie - in the interests of disclosure, I married Tony Jackman - and have been subjected to the horrors of food fads, chef's tables, gourmet eight-course menus (in which nothing on the plate was larger than a 50c-piece) and cooking experimentation ever since.
I have never eaten a meal in a restaurant without pausing for it to be photographed, causing me to react strangely when my host at a dinner party urges me to tuck in "before it gets cold".
I ask you to consider brains, tentacles, offal, tongue and beetroot as just...