I like food. I’m a fan of food. It’s the most efficient way I’ve found for cheese to enter my body. But, I’ve got to admit, I pay about as much attention to the food that I eat as I do to the air that I breathe. I’m pretty sure it’s important (extended periods of time without either tend to become quite uncomfortable), but I don’t go to fancy West End shops to buy imported vine-ripened Italian air, or spend evenings discussing with friends the most pleasurable ways to inhale. Delia Smith’s How To Breathe does not sit on my bookshelf. It’s air, and I like it, but that’s about as far as it goes. And I really have no inclination to feel otherwise about food. Consequently, if 1) it can go from the shop to in my mouth in fifteen minutes, and 2) a cow was somehow involved, then I’ll probably eat it.