When I’ve finished I’m a bit taken aback. The list is quite a lot longer than I’d thought it would be. I hadn’t realized you needed so many spices just to make one curry. I’ve just looked in the kitchen, and we don’t have a Balti pan, or a grinder for grinding spices, or a blender for making the aromatic paste. Or a wooden spoon or any scales that work.

Still, never mind. What I’ll do is quickly go to Peter Jones and buy all the equipment we need for the kitchen, and then I’ll get the food and come back and start cooking. The thing to remember is, we only have to buy all this stuff once—and then we’re fully equipped to make delicious curries every night. I’ll just have to think of it as an investment.

By the time Suze arrives back from Camden Market that evening, I am dressed in my new stripy apron, grinding up roasted spices in our new grinder.

“Phew!” she says, coming into the kitchen. “What a stink!”

“It’s aromatic spices,” I say a bit crossly, and take a swig of wine. To be honest, this is all a bit more difficult than I’d thought. I’m trying to make something called Balti masala mix, which we will be able to keep in a jar and use for months, but all the spices seem to be disappearing into the grinder and refusing to come back out. Where are they going?

“I’m absolutely starving,” says Suze, pouring herself a glass of wine. “Will it be ready soon?”

“I don’t know,” I say, peering into the grinder. “If I can just get these bloody spices out . . .”

“Oh well,” says Suze. “I might just make some toast.” She pops a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster and then starts picking up all my little bags and pots of spices and looking at them.

“What’s allspice?” she says, holding up a pot curiously. “Is it all the spices, mixed together?”

“I don’t know,” I say, banging the grinder on the counter. A tiny dusting of powder falls out and I stare at it angrily. What happened to a whole jarful that I could keep for months? Now I’ll have to roast some more of the bloody things.

“Because if it is, couldn’t you just use that and forget all the others?”

“No!” I say. “I’m making a fresh and distinct Balti blend.”

“OK,” says Suze, shrugging. “You’re the expert.”

Right, I think, taking another swig of wine. Start again. Coriander seeds, fennel seeds, cumin seeds, peppercorns . . . By this time, I’ve given up measuring, I’m just throwing everything in. They say cooking should be instinctive, anyway.

“What’s this?” says Suze, looking at Luke Brandon’s card on the kitchen table. “Luke Brandon? How come he sent you a card?”