Quotes from Nigel Slater

It must have been the lack of nutrients that gave my father his temper. He is not a sweet man despite a very sweet tooth.

There is too much talk of cooking being an art or a science – we are only making ourselves something to eat.

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you....Once the warm, salty butter has hit your tongue, you are smitten. Putty in their hands.

Real food meas big-flavoured, unpretentious cooking. Good ingredients made into something worth eating. Just nice, uncomplicated food.

It is an inescapable fact that the Great British Pudding is made of flour and water. In other words, our sweet culinary heritage is based on little more than glue. Sure, our puddings are sweetened with jam, or currants, or treacle, or syrup, or honey, or chocolate, or apples, but at their heart and soul is glue – something that cannot be said for a French crème brulée or an Italian tiramisu, or even a New York cheesecake.

It is impossible not to love someone who makes toast for you.

Well let's face it, who on earth besides antique dealers and gay couples actually still give dinner parties?

I am a winter person, never happier than on a clear, frosty morning.

I cannot go any further without mentioning my favourite biscuit of all time, now sadly, tragically, extinct. The oaty, crumbly, demerara notes of the long-forgotten Abbey Crunch will remain forever on my lips. I loved the biscuit as much as anything I have ever eaten, and often, in moments of solitude, I still think about its warm, buttery, sugary self.

Good kitchens are not about size; they are about ergonomics and light.

Food is, for me, for everybody, a very sexual thing and I think I realised that quite early on. I still cannot exaggerate how just putting a meal in front of somebody is really more of a buzz for me than anything. And I mean anything. Maybe that goes back to trying to please my dad, I don't know. It's like parenting in a way I suppose.

Almost anything is edible with a dab of French mustard on it.

I understood that if ever one wanted to live with someone you cooked for them and they came running. But then it is my idea of hell these days, living with someone. The idea of sharing your life with someone is just utterly ghastly. I know why people do it, but it's never a good idea.

It is the deep, salty stickiness of food that intrigues me more than any other quality.

Pamper a tomato, overfeed it, overwater it and you will get a Paris Hilton of a tomato.

Food has been my career, my hobby, and, it must be said, my escape.

Believe me when I tell you that there is no lie quite so obvious as the one where you try to protest that you have washed your face ready for bedtime while you are still sporting an enormous ear-to-ear purple smile of dried Ribena.

I have become more interested than ever in the effect of a diet higher in 'greens' than it is in meat - both in terms of my own wellbeing and, more recently, those implications that go beyond me and those for whom I cook.

You can't smell a hug. You can't hear a cuddle. But if you could, I reckon it would smell and sound of warm bread-and-butter pudding.

I am not getting into the rarebit versus rabbit argument. Whatever you call it, it is still cheese on toast.

Mit unserer Psyche stimmt etwas nicht, wenn wir glauben, wir müssten uns selbst mit dem Backen von Petit Fours abquälen.

Gießen Sie sich einen Schluck ein, bevor Sie anfangen zu kochen.

Nichts ist so nützlich und vielseitig wie ein kaltes Brathühnchen.