It’s another Tuesday in our topsy turvy Brooklyn apartment and Mike asks me to make cornbread — or I should say more cornbread. Just the night before, we had polished off a batch, companion to a pot of use-up-the carrots-that-have-been-in-the-freezer-too-long lentil soup. Today, the scent lingers, haunting our kitchen (and thoughts) like a new romance.

It’s Tuesday and, for a second day running, I’m weighing dry ingredients, whisking wet. Not content to make quite the same bread twice, I dial it up a notch with jalapeño peppers, pineapple and a dash of paprika. In no time, I’m flour-streaked, chilli-fingered, spattered in batter — but the bread’s in the oven and it smells damn good.