She loved food. He liked that.

A lot of people loved to eat, loved taste, loved indulgence, but not many could be said to love food itself. He would catch her looking hungrily at cookbooks in shop windows as they passed. Hungry for the lovingly prepared presentations on their glossy covers, and the ideas contained within.

She loved it best when someone suggested cardamom ice-cream, or roast pork with peach gravy, or roulade of beef with whipped potato and radish cream, and she got to taste, in her mind, something she had never thought of before. Could tell how it fit together, or laugh at the absurdity. He loved that laugh.