Thali, a highly structured meal

In 2015, Professor of linguistics Dan Jurawksy published a book called The Language Of Food, containing a collection of essays about the ways in which food and language interact. They range from analysis of the choice of words on menus (when is it of financial interest to refer to something in French rather than English) to the origins of the term ketchup (hint: it's old). The final chapter is my firm favourite, in which Jurawksy presents a theory called "The Grammar of Cuisine". Having discussed the language used to describe food, Jurawksy argues that cuisines are languages in their own right.

Like all languages, cuisines have structure, with inherent, mathematical rules that must be followed in order to create the correct phrase or dish. Such "grammatical" rules also impact the order of dishes within the sentence of a meal. As with dialects and local slang, these rules differ from culture to culture, with minute variations appearing within a single nation. Consider, for instance, the rules governing Indian thali, where even the arrangement of dishes on the tray is crucial, with different ingredients and dishes appearing in different regions. Or compare the rules governing the order of cheese and dessert in France and the UK. The rules of preparation and where each dish should sit are firmly grounded in cultural identity, the product of thousands of years of gastronomic development.

Jurawksy asserts that a meal, like a sentence, can be analysed and broken down into an algebraic equation - a sum of parts that must be combined in the correct order to create the product. As with nouns and adjectives,  flavours must "agree" grammatically in order to create the correct, authentic taste. Thus a traditional cottage pie cannot be made with filo pastry and a Margherita pizza cannot contain cheddar - the flavours would not fully agree and would not be recognisable as the original dish. The Italian government has gone so far as to have the recipe for the Margherita protected by the EU - cementing the grammar of the dish in international legislation.

Nonetheless, there will always be cooks who purposefully subvert the instated rules. Jurawksy offers the example of bacon ice cream, a clear aberration of the usual rules governing American dessert. But, as his book highlights, it is this subversion, this introduction of new, unusual flavours and ingredients that help cuisines to develop. And the same can be said for languages; new inclusions and structural changes always reshape them for the future. In both instances the initial reaction is often horror (think of the outrage following the introduction of  "chav" into the OED, or the removal of the circumflex in certain French words) but eventually cultural appropriation takes over and nobody notices. If you weren't aware, bacon ice cream is now a thing. And as we know, many of Europe's most central ingredients are foreign imports that have quietly been absorbed into the national identity. The potato is not native to Ireland, nor the tomato to Italy; even fish and chips, that stalwart of the Great British Menu, can (according to Jurawksy) be traced back to ancient Persia.

The concept of the grammar of cuisine is also a reminder that, as much as cooking offers huge scope for creativity and experimentation, it is still highly structured and based on a founding set of cultural principles. Some of these unwritten rules go beyond the kitchen and can become a matter of national pride - just ask an Italian how they feel about ordering a cappuccino after 11am. And what are the implications if someone veers from the strictures? Even if it sparks a new wave of creativity that shapes the cuisine for the future, for many it signifies the transgression of a fundamental order around which their lives are based. Jurawksy highlights the horrified attitude of Chinese acquaintances towards salad, as, for them, the act of cooking food is seen as a sign of civilisation and culture, of exercising control over the elements. To eat raw vegetables as a dish, or even unboiled water is, for some, highly ungrammatical and even insulting.

I am completely taken with Jurawksy's theory, because it offers two new methods of studying food. Primarily, it provides a unique way of analysing the composition of meals. Each ingredient has a specific role within the phrase of a dish; mushrooms could be the noun, rice the verb, cream the adjective. Adding a twist of black pepper to a carbonara, or sprinkling almonds on a curry becomes akin to checking that your verb endings agree, or that you've added the correct accents. It reminds us that food is multi -faceted and complex, encouraging us to study in detail the flavours and techniques that best complement one another, both to understand a traditional dish and do justice to the ingredients themselves.

The theory also appeals because, by seeing food as a language, we acknowledge that it is a crucial form of communication. To cook for someone is to pass on some kind of message, and, using Jurawksy's theory, we can argue that each plate in a meal, like each word in a sentence, has meaning and subtext. Each dish is the carefully chosen expression of a certain emotion or desire, whether subconscious or not, in both the private and public sphere. Consider the importance of food in politics (as analysed in the Radio 4 Food Programme), especially at international summits. The meals served at such events are in no way separate from the diplomatic conversation, as they can reflect the arguments being made in the board room - blurring the lines between the dining and negotiating tables. At home, cooks can impregnate food with emotion, from the ingredients used to the mood of the person at the stove. Salman Rushdie gives a beautiful example of this in Midnight's Children, describing how aunties use their food to make a point, creating “the biryanis of dissension...the curries of disquiet".

Certain flavours suggest emotions more obviously than others; something bold and spicy might signal excitement, something smooth and luxurious perhaps more indicative of desire, with something plain more likely signifying comfort. As with the words we use, the dishes we choose to make for ourselves and others are indications of our personalities and intentions. This is why certain foods are appropriate at some occasions but not at others, regardless of season: hence the difference between the first meal you cook for a partner, at a birthday party, or following a death.

As eating is a fundamental element of our existence, the language of food speaks to our innermost selves. Its basic nature means it has a unique ability to alter our mood, hence why a tub of ice cream following a breakup can do more good than a stream of comforting words from a friend. We eat for strength and survival, which gives the language of food an inherently positive vibe - after all we rarely give ourselves food to make us unhappy. And cooking for another is, beyond physical touch, one of the most elemental ways of showing that you care about them.

With the multitude of recipes and ingredients at our disposal, I would argue that food is one of the richest languages of all - simultaneously primal and complex. Although steeped in rules, tradition and cultural inheritance, the language of food still offers a simplicity of message, no matter what you make, or for whom. A way to say welcome, and a way to say I love you.

Sometimes, only an egg will do. At the end of a long, tough week, I was (like many others, I have no doubt) feeling tired, washed out and run down. For three days I'd been feeling off, vaguely unwell and uninterested in eating. By Friday I decided enough was enough, but felt too tired and too nervous to concoct anything involving more than 5 ingredients and salt. Naturally, an egg was the answer. Not scrambled or fried (the thought of milk or butter made my stomach churn), and the idea of just boiling one seemed to depressing to contemplate. I concluded that, while the day had not been much of a success, there was still an opportunity to turn things around - so I decided to be adventurous. I'd poach one instead.

Sadly that isn't even a joke. For someone who considers themselves an able cook, a poached egg is something I had never attempted alone. I usually just hovered behind my mum, marvelling at the strange alchemy that takes place when you crack an egg into water. I think it was always generally presumed by all (myself included) that I was simply too clumsy to pull it off. I'd always wanted to try, but always managed to avoid it, declaring that it was too faffy, too likely to go wrong. Boiling is simple, reliable and free from goo: leave the poaching to the chefs at the Wolseley. Yet for some unfathomable reason, after a hopeless day and a harrowing week, I decided to give it a go. After all, while there is ample opportunity for disaster, when done correctly, a poached egg is rather miraculous - dainty and delicate, with a completely unique texture and flavour. And it is extremely à la mode, of course, overtaking menus and Instagram feeds worldwide. (Please note that no avocados were harmed during the creation of this meal.)

Not willing to rely on my memory for this grand undertaking, I consulted Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall's Veg, which has a double page spread dedicated to the dish of poached egg on toast. With one finger on the recipe, I brought a pan of water to the boil, cracked an egg in a ramekin, and used a spoon to create a whirlpool. It took almost a minute to get anything resembling a vortex - exactly how are you supposed to create a space into which an egg can drop whole? Taking a deep breath, I tipped it in and rammed on the lid, switching off the heat, as directed by HFW.

It was at about this moment that I started swearing.

As I looked on in horror, the egg started spinning in the water, wispy and translucent, like a ghost caught in a cyclone. I turned away to prepare the toast and heard a strange popping sound, followed by the characteristic thump of a pan lid being lifted up and down by internal pressure. "What is this monster I have created?" I thought to myself, grimacing and turning to look back at the pan. Bits of egg white had drifted from the centre and seemed to be boiling, creating a bad-smelling, eggy foam, which promptly spilled over the edge of the pan, and onto the hob. I swiftly moved the blasted thing away from the heat, and removed the lid. The water ceased to splutter, but the lid was left covered in a web of sticky ectoplasm. Delightful.

The toaster popped, the timer beeped, and the moment had come to test the egg. Tablespoon in hand (I am yet to acquire a slotted one for the purpose) I lifted the blobby monstrosity from the water and poked it gingerly. To my great relief, nothing popped, ooozed or splattered. Just the faintest hint of a wobble, which I took to be a good sign. I scraped the butter packet with a knife and spread it on the toast, and slipped the egg onto it. After a dusting of salt and pepper, I eased a small knife through its glimmering surface. Sadly there was no cascade of yolky gold, as promised by HFW's image, but it was soft and yellow, and seemed full of potential. Not even bothering to take it to the table, I stood by the toaster and took a bite. It was the ultimate combination of good bread (strong and sour - photo above), salty butter and creamy egg. Well, half an egg anyway, given how much was lost to the water. Still, it had the desired effect; my shoulders relaxed and I sighed, tension melting away at the pure joy of having tried something and succeeded (mostly), and finding that it tasted good.

I ate with great determination, hunger appearing from nowhere, and found myself thinking of The Deep Blue Sea. This bizarre jump from toast to Terence Rattigan was due to the current production of the play at the National Theatre, directed by Carrie Cracknell and starring the wondrous Helen McCrory. In the final scene of this production, (SPOILER) once Hester has realised that Freddie is never coming back, she knows she has a choice. Try to end her life again, or carry on. For the second time in the play she goes to prepare something to eat - pulling out slices of white bread, and cracking an egg violently into a pan. She starts collect Freddie's things, cradling his jacket to her chest like a child, weeping openly. The audience still has no idea what she will do: will she go on? Or will she turn back to the gas fire and aspirin? She continues to sob, and just as you think she's about to succumb to the darkness, she is roused by a crackling and spitting noise from the pan. She busies herself at the stove, still crying all the while, scoops up the egg and throws it at the bread. She takes her plate to the chair, sits and looks at it, and, with great determination, takes a bite. And then the lights go down.

It is an astonishing moment, theatre at its most simple and powerful. With the simple motion of eating an egg (a symbolic food in itself after all - representing the beginning of all life), Hester demonstrates that she must go on, that life must continue beyond heartbreak. She knows there is more to life, and more to her than past experiences have shown. From the mire of desperation in which she was drowning, a kernel of strength pushed her onwards, despite all her inclination to the contrary.

Fictional as they may be, her actions are some of the most inspirational I have ever seen on stage. And while my situation at the end of the week was in no way comparable to hers, I couldn't help but feel that to eat an egg with great conviction was a good way to reset, to adjust one's viewpoint and remember that the world would not end after three bad days. As Mr Miller, the kindest voice in the play, says "go to sleep, get up and go on living." And we must. No matter what. Tomorrow we can try again.

When faced with the prospect of losing his property to the Great Fire of London, Samuel Pepys made the smart decision to bury some of his most valuable possessions. These included important papers, his finest wine, and a block of Parmesan. Yes, really. Rather than saving his jewels, heirlooms and books, Mr Pepys opted for cheese. Though it is likely that there was a pecuniary incentive for this (since having been presented to Henry VIII in 1512  by Pope Julius II, Parmesan was well known in the English court - and it was extremely expensive) there is no denying the fact that Pepys clearly felt quite strongly about cheese.

And he is by no means the only one. A cursory glance at the diets of Western Europe indicates that cheese holds a significantly high position in people's estimations. Part of the sacred triumvirate along with wine and bread, cheese has had a colourful history and continues to play a crucial role in modern diets.

While there is naturally debate as to the origins of cheese (some archaeologists trace its production in Poland to over 7000 years ago) - it appears to be generally presumed that it was first produced in Anatolia and Mesopotamia in around 6500BC . This is likely to be due to changing climate and a move to pastoralism, though a popular story upholds that it was discovered by accident, when a traveling merchant stored milk in sheep's gut. The milk fermented in the heat, and cheese was the result. Nice idea, but unlikely, as most neolithic humans were lactose-intolerant. What we do know is that the Greeks loved cheese (Homer's cyclops made his own feta, and they even had a God of cheesemaking, Aristaeus) and the Romans considered themselves masters of it.  Some of our famous modern cheeses can be traced back to Ancient Rome: Pecorino Siciliano, for example, is discussed by Pliny the elder. Though cheese may have been created in Britain before the Romans arrived, they certainly made an impact by instating their own methods for its production,  making it part of the daily diet and paving the way for generations of cheese obsessives like Pepys.

While no one in the world eats more cheese per head than the  French, the UK  makes more varieties of cheese per capita than any other country. While Italy proudly states that it produces 487 types of cheese (which, as they like to make clear, is more than France) the Brits have over 700 types. This is an incredible feat, especially given the fact that during WW2 the only cheese production permitted was a bland cheddar hybrid, which all but wiped out other traditional cheeses.

Now that we have artisanal varieties aplenty, the UK's cheese obsession is more striking than ever. I can't be the only one to notice that cheese has an uncanny ability of turning perfectly sane, balanced individuals into drooling maniacs. Those who ordinarily follow standard portion protocol consider eating half a brie, or chewing from a block of cheddar to be perfectly normal. (Not that this is a modern phenomenon: in the fifteenth century, Boccacio wrote in the Decameron of an utopian 'mountain of parmesan cheese'.)  Buzzfeed, a reasonably reliable barometer for the mind of the average western millenial, is littered with articles for cheese obsessives,  boasting ambiguous titles such as: 23 Things You’ll Only Get If You’re Obsessed With Cheese and 25 Incredibly Cheesy Recipes You Need In Your Life. Cheese-obsessed characters are also a common feature in films and cartoons. Take Wallace, for example:

http://imgur.com/gallery/h9l5u

As it turns out, this proclivity to cheese obsession is not simply the result of Western gluttony. Recently published research indicates that it is scientifically possible to be addicted to cheese. This is due to casein, a chemical present in all dairy, that can trigger the brain's opioid receptors, potentially leading to addiction. (This puts a whole new slant on the Pepys story - was he just protecting his stash?) Such a finding might explain why the cheese toastie has such cult status. An essential post-night out or mid-revision snack for British students, such is our collective ardour for the toastie that it is  now possible to order them directly to your door. There are dozens of articles online about the art of the toastie, all laden with drool-related adjectives and references to gastronomic nirvana. One even went so far as to describe a sandwich as "sex in bread". The idea that slapping a few squares of processed dairy in plasticky white sliced could be sexy might seem ridiculous, but the author of that article is clearly not the only person to think so. Take the following clip from the 2014 film Chef - a masterclass in food porn.



Admit it, there is something very sexy about that sandwich. Is it the careful placement of the cheeses, the aesthetically pleasing range of colours, the oozing cheddar, seeping between the slices or (my favourite) the satisfying crunch as Jon Favreau slices through it with the epic chef's knife? Whatever the secret, put the film title into YouTube and the 'grilled cheese scene' is the first thing that comes up. So I'm clearly not the only one to see it that way. And this attitude doesn't stop at sandwiches - anything laden in melted cheese (especially pizza) is frequently described as 'sexy'. Like chocolate, cheese that is hot, molten and messy really seems to turn people on. Which is really saying something when you consider that up close, even mild varieties often smell (to quote author Andrew Dalby) like 'baby's vomit'.

Addictive and erotic properties aside, what is it about cheese that really keeps people coming back for more? It is the quintessential comfort food, helping us through life in a myriad of little ways: melted on toast, squished in a roll, grated over pasta (I have waxed about that particular dish here), and slathered over vegetables - a reliable way of getting children to eat them, by the way. Cheese just seems to keep people happy, combining a satisfying saltiness with the comforting creaminess of milk, which is, after all, our first food.

Cheese also has versatility on its side; it can feature in any meal of the day, and in Europe constitutes an entire course. Cheese also simultaneously functions as a sign of haute and peasant cuisine. In Britain, a sophisticated cheese course (served with port, following dessert) is the benchmark of upper class eating, whereas in mainland Europe, eating a selection of cheeses after a meal is considered standard, peasant fare. It is, after all, a basic foodstuff, something has has sustained us and kept us from starvation for hundreds of years. Its simplicity is, in itself, comforting. In agricultural communities cheese is a truly local food, representing a sense of place. The cheese will taste of the local grass, literally transferring the taste of the earth.

But there is something more to it than that, something I couldn't quite put my finger on until I visited Neal's Yard Dairy in Covent Garden in the name of journalistic commitment (and delicious free samples). I knew already that the making of cheese was part of a pivotal change in human development - indicating progress from merely gathering food to farming and processing it. Gareth at Neal's Yard helpfully pointed out that it is this process that makes cheese so special; we consider the transformation of one raw material into another to be a magical and mythological action, and we are therefore awed by the finished product. (Just look at the way people obsess about wine and craft beer production.)

This insight helped me appreciate the nature of our cheese obsession, for the look, taste and texture of a cheese is dependent on a million different variables, allowing producers infinite room for experimentation. There is always the chance that you will create something new and unexpected, a foodstuff that is wholly unique. A gift that keeps on giving, cheese promises unending opportunities for new tastes and experiences. Quite simply, it is alchemy; gastronomic gold.

Holy Week has always struck me as a unique period of time. As with all festivals, there is something comforting in its familiarity, in the repetition of rituals - the hymns, the folding of palms, the quiet solemnity of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and (if you're brave) Holy Saturday mass, with the same stories told over and over. Naturally the food consumed over the week has special resonance - announcing the end of lent and its associated mortification of the flesh (I once had a theory that my mum was on a mission to feed us only white rice and green beans for 40 days to enhance the suffering) with the promise of joyful feasting on Easter Sunday and, if we're lucky, the arrival of spring.

Making Egyptian kahk

Unlike at Christmas, when the plethora of seasonal treats are made throughout the month of December, the brevity of Holy week necessitates several consecutive days devoted to baking. After all, why settle for one Easter cake when you can make five? In our house, the origins of these dishes stretch from Baghdad through to Cairo, Athens and Florence. There is a bowl of date halawa, softened with butter, mixed with fennel and rose water to be spread on crackers, round, almost savoury fennel biscuits, brushed with egg to a golden hue, sinfully buttery ghorayeba biscuits that crumble at a glance and, if we have the energy, almond cantucci as well. Good Friday morning is devoted to dying at least a dozen hard boiled eggs, and to baking hot cross buns, which are eaten warm and buttered after church at 3pm, The highlight of the week, however, is the ritual making of Egyptian kahk - small shortbread-like biscuits with a chewy heart of orange-scented dates. The process takes an entire day, usually spent around my grandmother's tiny Formica kitchen table, with my grandfather hovering at the door, offering to sample for quality control. The yeast must be prepared, the butter melted and the dates softened, before being rolled into perfectly round marbles. Then comes the kneading and shaping of the pastry, which must be precisely pinched and plied in order to create several hundred uniform boulders. It's an intensive process (my grandmother is a stickler for pastry perfection), but always maintains a certain charm and feeling of excitement. The act of gathering around a table to make kahk, like generations of women before us is comforting; it almost feels like an assertion of faith - as these humble biscuits form part of a crucial celebration. They are more than just an excuse to bake, otherwise we'd make them all year. Like many Easter foods, they signify the celebration of  the end of fasting and the hope of new life following the resurrection.

Dying eggs on Good Friday

Easter foods are notable in their explicit symbolic resonance; many of them retelling in their own way the story of Holy Week. In Greece, tsoureki Easter bread is decorated with eggs dyed red to represent Jesus' blood, Russian pashka (a sort of cheesecake mountain) is decorated with the letters XB meaning "Christ is risen", while capirotada, (Mexican bread pudding) contains cloves that represent the nails of the cross. Not to mention the ubiquitous shape on our beloved hot cross buns. Such overt symbolism is perhaps unsurprising when we consider the story upon which the Easter triduum begins. That is, a meal. And not any old supper, but the Passover, which is in itself an act of symbolic remembrance. Each element of the Seder (the Hebrew name for the meal) has a specific role in the commemoration of the flight of the Jews from Egypt. Participants eat, among other things, unleavened bread, as in their ancestors' haste to flee from persecution there was no time to let it rise, and bitter herbs dipped in saltwater to represent both the promise of new life combined with the suffering of slavery. To add to this sense of ceremony, it was at this very Passover meal that Jesus announced the transformation of bread and wine into his body and blood. Whether we believe this or not (or indeed any part of the Easter story) the point is that at this moment, food, the quintessence of earthliness, was raised up, sanctified and made holy. According to the most widely read book in the world, food now represented more than just the fruit of man's labour, but love, sacrifice, and, ultimately, God himself. And it is at this very moment in the gospel that the bible actively encourages eating in remembrance - instigating the symbolic practice of communion. Thus food becomes a way to feel closer to God.

The 11 balls of marzipan on top of Simnel cake represent the disciples (Judas is cast aside)

It is for this reason that Easter food holds such crucial symbolism - by creating dishes that overtly evoke the Easter story Christians can feel closer to it and what it represents. Thus these celebratory foods are not merely seasonal delicacies, but form an active part of the festival, symbolic of the ultimate triumph of love and goodness, and the hope of new life and a better future. Which arguably makes them the most important things we cook all year.

In case it has slipped your notice, food is fashionable in Britain right now. Gone are the days when talking about food was considered impolite, when the average dinner meant meat, over boiled, unseasoned veg and lumpy mash that may or may not have come from a sachet. Globalisation, the rise of the internet and camera phone have revolutionised our attitude to eating. Brits have come to realise that good food does not just mean beef wellington or "something French" , that vegetarian food means more than just cheese and lentils, and that countries that care about their food, incidentally, have better food.

Thanks to social media, eating is no longer a simple necessity but a fashion statement. Whether it's hand-ground coffee beans in a cup with elegantly patterned froth, a dainty plate of sushi, an oozing burger on brioche or, god help us, a sodding avocado, we are surrounded by people who are constantly showing us (up close and in technicolour) what they ate today.

But the obsession goes well beyond instagram. We're not only photographing food but talking about food - the restaurants we've frequented, the recipes we've found or the outrageous equipment we've bought. The Great British Bake Off has caused nothing short of a culinary revolution - and as a nation we are rising to the challenge to make more cakes and pastries and pies, and to make them more complex and delicious than ever before.

And then of course there are the newspaper articles, the magazines, columns and blogs, all with something to say about the diets of the day, the best places to find the latest trend item (current favourites being kombucha and bone broth apparently) and recipe after recipe after recipe. Finding myself among the noise I sometimes ask myself why I am writing, and what I can possibly hope to contribute. I have drafted and half typed a number of posts over the past three months and have ultimately discarded each, feeling there was nothing to say that hasn't already been said before.

Then I noticed a book a colleague was reading in preparation for a marathon: "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" and it got me thinking. I'm sure runners will tell you that there is so much more to training than putting one foot in front of the other, and my hope for this blog is to demonstrate, in my own small way, that there is so much more to food than putting fork to mouth.

Food is habit, ritual and memory. As a most basic and fundamental of human acts it forms an underlying constant in our lives, taking on a significance far beyond simply keeping us functioning. Food impacts upon and reflects our emotions, and can define certain stretches of our lives, so that when we revisit certain dishes we are shocked by a flash  of memory. I remember distinctly the first meal my dad ever cooked alone (roast lamb with too many boiled leeks and carrots), the slab of chocolate cake I ate in a wood on the most romantic day of my life, the unspeakably bad porridge at university that caused me to make a friend with a fellow early riser, simply because we had to vent our horror aloud, and the hot cross buns sent from home that I nibbled at 1am, weeping profusely, while alone in bed in Italy.  Each of these foods was represented a landmark, signifying an acknowledgement of irrefutable change, the making of bonds and the ache of homesickness. Always so much more than a mere satisfaction for my rumbling stomach.

Eating with other people has its own significance too. Sitting and breaking bread with another forges relationships in a unique way; we acknowledge our shared humanity, we see one another at our most basic, and thus, by extension, at out most vulnerable. It is intimate and special, something we often take for granted. To share a good meal with someone is to partake in the simple joy of being alive. And it is my belief that that is something worth writing about.