Mum was — and still is — a serial entertainer. She always did things well, with proper structure. Nibbles and olives with drinks, a fish starter, a meat course, cheese — in the French way, before dessert — and a choice of three puddings, which always seemed to include grape brulée and a chocolate roulade, referred to in our house as “elephant’s turd”. Summer lunches in the garden were populated with good things from the barbecue — grilled prawns, sausages, steaks and lamb chops — with the starters laid out on the table. There would be whole smoked mackerel with sweet mustard sauce, smoked salmon, homemade taramasalata, salami and prosciutto, and Mum’s chicken liver pâté, served in its terrine with a knife plunged into it. It was a lovely, old-fashioned pâté, with plenty of garlic and a texture that could be squashed onto toast. Dad would grill bread on the barbecue to go with it. In the 1960s, he had worked in the computer business, but at one of our summer lunches, he announced that