There was a supply chain shortage of anchovies a few months ago. M tried looking for them in no fewer than five supermarkets before he gave up and panic-bought 10 tins online. We have about four left, now, stacked in a neat little pile next to the cupboard door. I always have anchovies in the way my mother always had bacon in: salt, depth, the kind of thing that transforms a dish, even if you only have breadcrumbs and a skinny clove of garlic to play with. I fold them into sauces, I chop them into salsas, I pick them out of the tin whole and swallow them down while I’m cooking. Delicious salt.

The anchovy gateway was a recipe for something that’s now just known as ‘broc pasta’ in our house. from what I can trace it’s originally a Puglian recipe, made with cime di rapa - or turnip tops - or broccoli, a pinch of dried chilli, a little garlic. But then there’s also broccoli ‘Roman Style’, as described in Rachel Roddy’s An A-Z of Pasta: “cooked […] first in boiling water and then dragged (strascinati) around a pan with plenty of olive oil, smashed garlic and red chilli so it forms almost a cream.” This is not brocpasta, but it is something I may make instead.

My introduction to ‘broc pasta’ was in an early Jamie Oliver book in my mother’s kitchen. Low ceiling, small space, Aga taking up most of it. I remember cooking it and being uncertain of the result until I ate it, and felt the kick of the chilli and depth of the salt trickle down my gullet. I went to university shortly after; my brother sent me off with a cupboard staples cookbook, a cheque for fifty quid (riches! I’ve never forgotten the generosity) and the instruction of not to spend it on anything sensible...