‘‘I GOT SOME!” My mother, round about 1989, plonking a Sainsbury’s carrier bag triumphantly on our scrubbed pine kitchen table. She’d driven to Chester at 7am on a Saturday to queue for a little jar of magic that was going to transform our lives.
Ceremoniously, she unscrewed the lid so that we could inhale a whiff of the warm south. My father made spaghetti Bolognese for lunch, with the pesto carefully stirred through the pasta, a heterodox move, but then basil had come late to the
