It strikes me, not for the first time, that the simple things in life can be the most complicated. If something is flagged as complicated or paradoxical, then we’re geared up for nuance. It’s the apparently straightforward things that are anything but.

Take the very word “simple,” or a word like “normal.” While they seem like statements of the obvious, they mean different things to different people. I tell my youngest son not to rest his feet on the table when we’re all eating, for instance. My explanation is clear. It’s just not “normal,” I say. In his mind, though, it’s the most “normal” position he could take. It’s comfortable, he’s at home, it’s informal. Why wouldn’t he kick back and put his feet up on the table?

We’ll get there, no doubt, but it makes me think about how the most everyday feelings can be so richly complex. My “normal” is not always my sons’. My “simple” might be only mine. Someone else’s idea of “fun” or “boring” or “exciting” is often unrecognizable to others.

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “comfort.” It’s the title of my new cookbook, so discussions have been many and varied in recent weeks. What does comfort mean in the context of food, and what does it mean to me? If I add ginger, curry leaves and tamarind to my shakshuka, for example, and serve it with steamed rice, as brilliantly suggested by my co-author, Helen Goh, is it still a shakshuka? Is it still my comfort food? Does it still have the necessary familiarity?

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