There is no such thing as room temperature: there are simply different rooms.
Chi-pôte-lay isn’t only frequently mispronounced. It’s also continuously misconceived.
Even a lovingly crafted present wasn’t good enough for one correspondent, who bemoaned the way that Christmas had morphed into the “great middle-class home-made chutney exchange . . . Even in November, I have jars of it left.”
We try loads of Christmas sandwiches so you don't have to.
The high-altitude vineyards of Italy’s largest island produce nectar for the gods, Greek or Roman.
A feast for the eyes: but the best cookbooks are about more than just beautiful photographs.
Wine is our compensation: the soft landing as we tumble on to the wrong side of 30.
Who knows, if things keep on this way, Britain may well become the sort of country where the outcome of a televised baking competition becomes a matter of high social and political importance.
It’s a national handicap: a survey a couple of years ago claimed that 38 per cent of us would never complain at a restaurant, however bad our experience.
The fridge has become, literally, unhinged. What now?
This Canadian version of an old standard is a good substitute for dinner.