My mother is a very good cook. When I was growing up, of course, I took this for granted, which was one reason why in my pre-pubescent years polite adults would refer to me as 'well-built', and other children...well, I'm sure you can imagine. It was not until my first year at university that I realised that there was one area to which her culinary expertise does not stretch: apart from judicious additions of ginger and a touch of chilli powder to casseroles and gravy, she never cooks anything really spicy.
It was doubtless a visit to an Indian restaurant, probably as part of the 'organised fun' (I can think of few worse oxymorons) of Freshers' Week, which brought me to this realisation. Now, I don't want to speculate here about why I had never eaten a proper curry before the age of 19, although I'd like to make it clear that my family is not imprisoned in a mid-twentieth century timewarp, waiting for Elizabeth David to come and tell them that olive oil isn't just for clearing out blocked ears. Suffice it to say that I hadn't. And although I have consumed many fairly spicy oriental dishes since then, when I do so I always feel a certain regret alongside the physical effects that other people seem to relish.
