The past few months, I’ve been focusing on food, indulging my personal dietary quirks and preferences at the expense of my despairing family. For example, I adore anchovies, so I’ve been using them in almost everything I cook, gleefully ignoring my children as they gnash their teeth and plead with me to dispense with the gross fishy stuff.

Similarly, I went on a sustained globe artichoke bender. Preparing artichokes often scares people off, but I’ve perfected a simple method. Trim the stem and outer leaves, cut off the top, boil with half a lemon, then eat them warm with olive oil, lemon juice and salt. Perfection.

Yet when I offer the thistles of my labour to my family, the children put fingers down their throats, play-acting projectile vomits and fill themselves with bread instead. Even my husband backs away quietly, heading towards the toaster. But I couldn’t care less. With the end of days upon us, it’s all Me Time. At least in the kitchen.

I have one great food craving that had gone unsated, and that’s my passion for oysters. They’re costly, of course, but the real issue is that fussy Monica wants her oysters freshly shucked. And shucking involves a very sharp knife wielded in a way that poses a real risk of catastrophic blood loss.

I have vivid childhood memories of watching my dad do it, bent over the sink in our laundry, using a small blade to pry the shells open. It looked so dangerous, the way he’d dig that knife in but he never cut himself. Not once.