The last time I actually baked anything in this kitchen other than bread or pizza, I was no more than twelve years old; a decade ago. For some reason, I’d never felt confident enough in my mother’s kitchen to really experiment. She, The Chef, would watch me working, and while she never once criticized me, I could tell she did not approve of a number of my methods.

At University, I became known as a bit of a cook; I’d be called on by friends, with requests ranging from “how do I make a white sauce? (can I use margarine?)” to “what do I do with romanescu cauliflower?” and “how do I boil eggs properly?” – I was pretty hot shit; easily the most accomplished and confident in the kitchen of all my friends. I remember, too, the very last time I made muffins. I was in Sussex, with my friend Amiee. It was three in the morning, and we made pistachio and white chocoalte muffins, and they were excellent. Perfectly shaped, and a moist little cap on top. The taste was to die for. We’d eaten most of them by the next night.

And that was two years ago. Since then, the muffin tins sat unloved in the back of a counter cupboard. And today, I pulled them out, dusted them off, and found the Mokka. I made muffins for the first time in two years, just throwing what I found into the mix until it all looked right and felt right. And I still coldn’t bring mself to lick the bowl after dishing out the muffin mix into the little greased pots; it’s never felt quite right. Same for cookie dough; I can’t do it. I’ll eat raw fish happily, even undercooked eggs pose no issue, but give me raw dough and I gag. Anyway, in all, it produced 18 healthy sized muffins, of which five have already been eaten by various people. I think they’ve come out okay, but could do with more careful time in the oven.

I only wish I knew where Amiee was. I’d send her some.