Even after two decades and much education in matters gastronomic, I still miss some of the staples of my childhood, none of them healthy. I’ll be home in a couple of weeks and I will almost definitely enjoy a deep-fried pizza supper. I know it’s unhealthy; I know it is fundamentally wrong; but it is also delicious. It tastes of my 1970s, Glasgow drizzle and a time when we had an international football team that qualified for major tournaments. Luckily, given my Punjabi heritage, I was also that rare Scot who was acquainted with the vegetable – some of the pulses we ate were so obscure they have no English name.