The differences between organic and conventionally farmed pork are about a whole lot more than just taste

If there's one thing I find almost as tiresome as climate change deniers, it's organic bashers. "It's cruel, it is. They're not allowed to treat animals even when they're sick, except with herbs and that. And the animals are forced to stay outside, even when it's snowing. My mate's friend lives near an organic pig farm, and he says it's a scandal the way they treat their animals – they're wandering about outside, covered in mud and everything…"

It's all bollocks, of course. And in case you're ever on the receiving end of this kind of ignorant rant, allow me to clarify. Almost all the same veterinary interventions are available to organic farmers as to conventional ones. What doesn't happen often – because it isn't usually necessary in the natural, extensively outdoor environment of organic farming – is the automatic dosing of whole flocks and herds with strong prophylactic antibiotics and other drugs. Rather, the animals are treated according to their needs and symptoms. Having said that, if an organic farmer has a persistent worm problem in his sheep, say, he may decide to treat the entire flock, but they will then not be allowed to go to slaughter for three times longer than in conventional farming. This is an extra precaution to ensure that the medicines involved do not enter the human food chain.

Given concerns about the possible long-term effects of agricultural antibiotics in our meat (not to mention chemical pesticide residues in fruit and veg), it's hardly surprising so many of us buy organic these days, though the argument over whether organic ingredients "taste better" or "are healthier" is so often poorly expressed (on both sides, to be fair). The issues for me are animal welfare (organic standards are the highest we have), chemical residues (almost nonexistent in organic produce) and the protection of our environment (land under organic, chemical-free cultivation is the only insurance we have against the polluting, soil-degrading effects of industrially produced agrochemicals).

Of course, farming organically doesn't make you a good farmer or a good stockman any more than farming conventionally makes you a bad one. You can be incompetent within either system. But what's vital about organic farming – and especially the Soil Association certification system that upholds it – is that it gives us one of the very few food labels that actually mean anything. And that's why I'm proud to support Organic Fortnight, which began yesterday. For me, now's a good time to restate my commitment to this massively important approach to growing our food, and to acknowledge and applaud the fantastic work done over the last 15 years by the Soil Association's director Patrick Holden, who steps down later this year.

I'd urge you to go to one of the events (especially the Organic Food Festival in Bristol next weekend), visit an organic farm or just enjoy a spectacularly tasty organic lunch.

I'm cooking pork this week, because pigs (along with chickens, about which I've said plenty) are the most intensively farmed – and, I'd say, most abused – of all our farm animals. In the intensive system, these intelligent, complex creatures are routinely treated with such an indifferent disregard for their natural behaviour that it can only be described as cruel. (If you've seen Tracy Worcester's remarkable film, Pig Business, you'll know just how bad it can be.) Organic pigs, by contrast, flourish in conditions that allow them to express a full range of natural behaviours. They are kept in family groups, have access to soil and vegetation, they can root in the earth and wallow in the mud.

So this week, if you're buying pork, I really hope you'll choose organic. And that you'll enjoy every morsel.

Pork and Puy lentil salad

Vary the vegetables depending on what you have to hand. Fennel, roast baby carrots or beetroot, broad beans or peas all work well. Serves four.

150g puy lentils
2 unpeeled garlic cloves, bashed
1 bouquet garni, made from 2 sprigs thyme and 2 parsley stalks tied together with a bay leaf
½ small onion
4 free-range eggs
150g french beans, topped
200g leftover roast pork, roughly shredded
250-300g cherry tomatoes, halved
Handful of rocket (optional)
1 small handful chopped parsley
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
For the vinaigrette
1 garlic clove, peeled and minced
2 tsp Dijon mustard
1 tbsp red-wine vinegar
3 tbsp olive oil

Rinse the lentils and put them in a pan with the garlic, bouquet garni, onion and enough cold water to cover by about 5cm. Bring to a boil and simmer for 25 minutes until the lentils are just tender, or according to the package instructions.

Meanwhile, make the vinaigrette. Whisk together the garlic, mustard and vinegar with a pinch of salt, then whisk in the oil until emulsified. Drain the lentils and toss them, while still warm, in the dressing.

Place the eggs in a pan of hand-hot water, bring to a boil and simmer for six minutes. Drain and plunge into iced water. Cook the beans until just tender in boiling, salted water, then drain and refresh under the cold tap.

When the lentils are room temperature, toss with the pork, beans, tomatoes, rocket and parsley. Adjust the seasoning. Peel the eggs, halve them and arrange over the salad.

Slow-cooked aromatic shoulder of pork

I call this deliciously tender, succulent slow-roast pork "Donnie Brasco" because you put it in the oven and "fugeddaboutit". Leftovers are great in all manner of salads, pasta sauces and sandwiches. Serves six-plus.

1 boned, rolled shoulder of pork (aka a spare rib joint), about 2.5-3kg
5 large garlic cloves, peeled
5cm piece fresh ginger, peeled
2 tsp chilli flakes
2 tsp ground ginger
1 tbsp brown sugar
½ tbsp flaky sea salt
1 tbsp sunflower or groundnut oil
1 tbsp soy sauce
For the five-spice mix
2 star anise
2 tsp fennel seeds
½ cinnamon stick
4 cloves
1 tsp black peppercorns
1 glass white or red wine

Heat the oven to 230C/450F/gas mark 8. With a craft knife, score the pork rind in parallel lines about 1cm apart and to a depth of 0.5-1cm (or get the butcher to do it for you).

Grate the garlic and fresh ginger into a small bowl, and mix to a paste with the chilli, ground ginger, sugar, salt, oil and soy sauce. Pound the five spices in a mortar (or grind in a clean coffee grinder) and mix a tablespoon into the paste (the rest will keep in an airtight jar in a cool, dark place for a month or so).

Put the joint skin-side up on a rack over a large roasting tin. Using your fingertips, rub just over half the spice rub into the scored rind. Roast the joint for 30 minutes, then remove from the oven and, using oven gloves or a thick, dry, cloth, carefully turn it over to expose the underside. Using a knife or wooden spoon (the meat will be very hot), smear the remaining spice rub over the underside of the meat, which should now be facing up. Pour the glass of wine and a glass of water into the roasting tin, cover with foil (you won't get any crackling, but you will get "chewling" – tender, chewable skin with a lovely, spicy flavour) and turn down the heat to 120C/250F/ gas mark ¼ and return to the oven for five to six hours, turning it skin-side up and basting with the fat and juices in the tin about halfway through.

To serve, don't so much carve the joint as scoop the tender, melting, aromatic meat on to warmed plates.

Pork tonnato

An unconventional take on the classic veal tonnato – it turns leftover roast pork into a quick and delicious lunch or supper. Serves four.

120g tinned tuna in oil, drained (I use Fish-4-Ever)
50g tinned anchovies, drained and chopped (again, I use Fish-4-Ever)
2-3 tbsp good mayonnaise
1 lemon
1-2 tbsp capers, rinsed
1-2 tbsp finely chopped parsley (optional)
2 thick slices leftover roast pork per person

Flake the tuna into a bowl and mix with the anchovies, mayo, a good squeeze of lemon juice and a few gratings of the zest. Smear this over the pork, then sprinkle with capers and parsley, if using, and serve.

Go to rivercottage.net for the latest news from River Cottage HQ.

Fiona Phillips had a high-profile job as a presenter on GMTV and two small children when her mother – and then her father – developed Alzheimer's disease. By Emine Saner

It is only when you look back, says Fiona Phillips, that you see there were signs. Her mother, Amy, was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's disease in her mid-60s, but her health was deteriorating long before that. "She was always quite an eccentric character," says Phillips, "which was one of the reasons we found it difficult to realise she was ill. I remember when she was in her early 50s, we went to my cousin's wedding and my mum was all over the place. She was crying, then she stood up in the middle of the speeches and her skirt fell down – she had been to the loo and forgotten to do it up. I found her in the loo crying, saying, 'What's wrong with me?'" When Phillips admits she felt embarrassed by her mother, she sounds so guilty about it.

There are 750,000 people with dementia in the UK, and the commonest type is Alzheimer's disease, for which there is no cure. Phillips had no idea that her mother had it. "I thought it could be HRT, and then she was on Tamoxifen for breast cancer and antidepressants. I thought her moods and behaviour were because of all the drugs she was on." She looks angry, remembering. "I was so furious with her doctors, thinking: what are they doing to her?"

Phillips, 49, has the same warm and chatty nature that made her a popular presenter on the ITV1 morning show GMTV. She left the programme in December 2008, after the stress of looking after her ill parents and young family became too much. Her book, Before I Forget, details the time she spent trying to take care of both. "Everyone talks about this 'sandwich generation' – people, usually women, who leave it longer to have children, so inevitably your parents are older and getting infirm." She smiles thinly. "So you're looking after babies and elderly parents, and trying to keep your career and marriage going too."

It became, she admits, too much and left her on the brink of a breakdown. "There's often one person who takes on the role of carer, whether it's because of distance or whatever. But I wanted to do it. I just felt this compulsion to be with them."

How does it feel to go from being the child looked after by your parents to the other way around? She thinks for a moment. "They were brilliant parents, but I always felt like I was supervising them a bit because they had quite a tempestuous relationship. I would worry about them and try to mediate, so it wasn't a huge shift."

Phillips and her two brothers grew up in Canterbury, where her parents owned a pub, then Southampton. Later, her parents, Amy and Phil, moved to Wales. At the time, Phillips's career was taking off – first on local radio stations in the south-east, then as a reporter on Sky News before she joined GMTV in 1993. She married Martin Frizell, GMTV's editor, and they had two sons, Nat in 1999 and Mackenzie in 2002. Shortly after Phillips gave birth to Nat, her mother came to visit, and it became obvious that something was wrong. At the coach station, Amy couldn't remember which bag was hers. Back at Phillips's house, Amy couldn't remember how to use the toaster, and she kept walking into her daughter's bedroom at night and trying to get into bed with her.

"She would cry, then laugh, then sit there with really cold eyes, staring at me," says Phillips. "I was convinced she was jealous of this new baby and how he would take all my time now. Again, I thought it was the drugs."

Before Amy became ill, says Phillips, "we were very close. She came to stay with me all the time. She was very warm – she could extract people's life stories in five minutes, and very often did. When I was a child, shopping took hours because she would speak to everybody." Now Amy cried all the time during their telephone conversations, and she would beg her daughter for help, but Phillips still had no idea what was wrong.

She remembers the phone calls to the GMTV studios from the police – one was to say that her mother had left a chip pan on which had caught fire and burned her. "I was pregnant with my second baby, I was getting up at 3am every day for work. I was beside myself." Her father was similarly struggling to cope. "He said: 'I'm ill, too.' Now I look back, he probably was."

She spent several years bundling the children into the car and driving to Wales to look after her parents. "Martin used to say, 'You've got no time for me,' and I would say, 'No, I haven't got bloody time for you.'"

It must have been a strain on their marriage. She nods. "It's a miracle he's still here. A lesser man would not have put up with all that. He used to say: 'You look after your parents and the children, and I'll look after you.' I was so bad-tempered with him, out of sheer tiredness."

Looking back, she realises she was also depressed. "I didn't want to go out anywhere. Martin would go out on his own. I just wanted to be in this cocoon and hide myself away. I used to sit on my bed, head in my hands, rocking, absolutely desperate. I remember Eamonn [Holmes, her GMTV colleague] saying to me: 'You're seriously depressed – you need help.' I used to say: 'No, I'm fine.'"

She didn't seek help, "because I knew why it was happening. It wasn't as if something was happening to me that I didn't understand. I was so tired, I had all these things to juggle and I was grieving for my mum because I was losing her day by day."

Then there was the constant guilt – for not spending enough time with her parents, for not spending enough time with her children. "I was either going off to Wales on my own or dragging the boys with me. And I was depressed and ill. I would worry that the children would look back and think I was always in bed, or always in Wales. I used to say to Mackenzie, who loves reading, 'Right, you've got 10 seconds to find a book and I'm only reading five pages.' I was always on the edge."

Amy was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. Her condition deteriorated, and the family decided she should go into a care home. "That was a horrible decision to make," says Phillips. "I really wanted to bring Mum to London, but I was worried about her being in a strange place, away from my dad and her other relatives. She went into a home that was a five-minute drive from my dad. He didn't go and see her. Whenever I went, he didn't want to see me. Instead of thinking he was behaving oddly, I thought that the absence of Mum had exposed him for what he was. He was never a demonstrative or affectionate dad, but now he was callous and cold; we thought he didn't care about us or her or his grandchildren."

By the time Amy died three years later, in 2006, Phillips had put Phil's behaviour down to grief and regret, but it was becoming clear that his brain was not functioning properly. He had tried to make a will, but the solicitor told Phillips he was incapable. "He wouldn't want me to come to the house, so we would arrange to meet somewhere and he would get lost and not turn up," she says. "He never phoned – that just wasn't Dad – but one day I got this letter from him. It was almost like a cry for help. He was apologising for things and the writing was feathery and kept tailing off." His local pharmacist had told his doctor that Phil had been going in daily to pick up a prescription he had already collected, and the doctor called Phillips.

"I kept going to see him, and one day he let me into the house. I could see why he hadn't before. There were these really odd things – a black skeleton he had hung on his door, two brand new bikes. The house was squalid, he had been sleeping on a filthy mattress in the front room. I just said, 'We've got to get you out of here.'" She describes the realisation that her father was showing the signs of Alzheimer's disease as "like another bomb going off in our family. Just when I had my weekends back and life could take on more normality. I felt selfish really. I just thought, not again."

Phil now lives in sheltered accommodation closer to London, which makes visiting him easier. Phillips said she made the decision to leave GMTV after a particularly stressful episode. She had left work one day to visit her father and take him shopping, when the phone rang. It was the GMTV press officer who said a tabloid paper was running a story about the police picking up her father – Phil would often get lost and wander the streets. "They were going to run this story as though he was some hobo who kept getting picked up by the police, instead of a desperately ill 74-year-old man. I took Dad home and he kept following me out of the house. I was looking at my watch thinking I wasn't going to make it home to pick the children up from school. I got in the car, pulled over and had to phone a lawyer to try to stop them printing the story. Then I was late for the children."

Shortly afterwards, she and her husband took the boys on holiday. "By the end of it, I didn't want to go back to that pace of life again." She came back and resigned. She is the first to admit that she is lucky to have had the choice, even with her husband leaving his at the end of last year. She does work. "But now it's all at my own pace; I say no to things I don't want to do. I still need to juggle children, work and Dad, but it's not the same. GMTV was a big part of my life and it was great, but [leaving] was the best thing I did."

She brightens, and just before I go touches me on the arm and says she doesn't want to sound self-pitying: "I know lots of people have to go through this and far worse." Phillips says the experience of caring for her father is different – and better – than when her mother was ill. "The children are older, and I'm not up at 3am every day. Mum loved getting the most out of life every day, and to see her reduced to this weeping, mute, sometimes aggressive woman was horrible. There are heartbreaking moments with Dad – he used to be a voracious reader, but now he can only look at picture books – but he doesn't know he is ill and he is so enjoyable to be with.

"Mum was suicidal for years, but Dad seems happy – he giggles all the time. I'm probably closer to him than I've ever been because I have to do things for him – it has enabled me to be more demonstrative. I always go away from him smiling, and I know I'll have really fond memories of Dad."

Before I Forget, by Fiona Phillips, published by Preface, £18.99, is out now. To order a copy for £14.99 with free UK p&p, go to guardian/bookshop or call 0330 333 6846

If your idea of cleaning is a quick swipe with a damp cloth, maybe it's time to up your game. Britain's top housekeeper, Margaret McMullin, has some insider tips

Polishing is overrated Wood needs polishing only once a year (use natural beeswax rather than silicone polish). The rest of the time, simply buff it vigorously with a lint-free cloth. Remove sticky fingerprints with a drop of diluted white vinegar.

But dusting must be done every week Work down from the ceiling to the floor using an ostrich feather duster (the dust will stick to the natural oils in the feathers) and a damp cloth. Clean fragile ornaments with a hairdryer set on cool.

Bicarbonate of soda is an excellent deodoriser For example, after you've chopped onions, rub the board with a bicarb paste (two teaspoons bicarb mixed with a little water), leave for 15-30 minutes and wash off with hot or boiling water . To keep drains smelling sweet, each week pour half a cup of bicarb and the same amount of white vinegar down the sink (it'll froth), then flush with boiling water.

White vinegar is a cleaner's store cupboard staple It's the best thing for getting water marks off shower screens and will also bring crusty taps back to their shiny glory. (Just wrap a piece of vinegar-soaked cotton around the tap and leave overnight. Repeat if necessary.)

Nothing beats getting into a freshly laundered bed And it's worth ironing sheets. I'm a great believer in hospital corners, too, because they stop the sheets moving while you sleep.

To check whether a feather pillow needs replacing, balance it on your hand If it stays in shape, it's still good, but if the sides start to droop, you need a new one. Buy goose feather if you can afford it.

Towels go hard because washing powder and fabric softeners leave mineral deposits in the fibres, which are then baked in as the towels dry. To ensure you have soft towels at all times, wash in laundry liquid rather than powder, and take out of the dryer or off the line before they're bone dry. Soaking hard towels in a solution of water and white vinegar (145ml vinegar: 4.5 litres of water) will bring them back to life.

My favourite piece of equipment is a variable-speed vacuum cleaner It can be used for so many things – vacuuming mattresses, for example, is the best way to get rid of mites.

Hiring a steam cleaner every few months will save you time and elbow grease Use it to give shower tiles, ovens and hobs a deep clean.

Cedar blocks make your cupboards smell nice, but they don't deter moths I hang sachets of Bouchard Anti-Moth Proofer (£2.95, from John Lewis) in my wardrobes to keep them at bay. If you find tiny, papery casings in your carpets, you have carpet beetles and need to call the experts.

I like cleaning silver, because you can sit down to do it And once you've finished, it really sparkles – a lovely reward for your hard work. But I hate cleaning windows; it's exhausting on the shoulders.

I caught the cleaning bug when I was eight My mother was an exceedingly good housewife, and I used to watch her while she worked. In those days, we had open fires that discoloured the paintwork, and I was fascinated by the way she washed it with a solution of water and ammonia. I'd go to house sales with my father, too, and he'd show me beautiful pieces of furniture and explain how to care for them.

Cleaning matters to me because I think a clean, fresh home lifts your mood. If I haven't cleaned my house for a while, I know I'm either too busy or a bit unhappy, so I make myself do it by putting everything in my bedroom on the bed – it means I can't go to sleep until I've dealt with it.

People don't think I'm overly fastidious because, although my house is clean, it's homely, too. I suspect friends probably clean up a bit before I visit, though.

There's no such thing as a cleaning cheat You can hide mess and disguise stains, but something is either clean or it isn't. If you have people coming and the place isn't clean, just tidy up the clutter and focus on the ambience – candles, flowers and low lighting all work wonders. Make time to get yourself ready, too.

Cleaning has to be done, so view it positively It's great cardiovascular activity, and much cheaper than joining a gym.

We don't live in hospitals So I'm dead against spraying everything with Dettol.

Cleaning is time-consuming So make everyone in the house responsible for looking after their own space. If they don't comply, go away for the weekend and leave them to it: believe me, it works much better than moaning.

• Margaret McMullin is director, senior housekeeping tutor and bespoke staff trainer at Greycoat Academy.

'I soon learned never to express hunger around them and to eat in secret, thereby developing an inextricable emotional link between what I ate and my ability to be loved'

In my head I am thin. I just haven't quite got there yet. As I was growing up, it was made clear that the fat me wasn't welcome, that a thin person was expected and awaited, and impatiently so. Of my parents' four children, I was always known as the "fat one". They had longed for a girl, following two boys born in quick succession, and were thrilled when I finally arrived. As I well know, having longed for a daughter myself, when one dreams of having a girl one does not picture a fat one – no one does. Hopeful parents picture a sweet, pretty (regrettable, but true), adorable little thing who'll be cuddly and affectionate in the way boys, post-babyhood, are rarely expected to be.

As retold by my parents, their close friends and relatives, for the first few years I duly fulfilled the hopes and dreams they'd harboured when hankering for a daughter: I was cheeky, vivacious and "utterly charming". If the photos are anything to go by, I wasn't particularly pretty, and certainly not thin. I was a solid toddler, as one might expect since I'd weighed 11½ pounds (5.2kg) at birth. Clearly my personality made up for the fact that my looks weren't as fine as they might have hoped for. All well and good – except when I started to get plump at around nine years old.

I have no memory of suddenly eating more or exercising less; there is no logical explanation for the increase in size. I wasn't enormous, but I was plumper than my peers and my siblings, and this began to concern my parents greatly. I recall once complaining to my father about the discomfort I experienced when the tops of my thighs rubbed together, causing sore, red patches, to which he replied, characteristically obliquely, "Try pushing yourself away from the table." At the time, as children tend to, I took him literally.

On one memorable evening it was made clear to me I needed to deal with my weight and, moreover, that my parents found it intolerable. The whole family sat down for a supper of mince and mashed potatoes. (In itself this was memorable, since we very rarely ate all together. In the 60s, when I grew up, adults always ate separately, differently and inevitably better than kids.) Before we began eating, Dad stood up, looking a bit uneasy, cleared his throat and announced, "Arabella won't be having potatoes because she's fat." I remember feeling overcome with rage and indignation – why should I be punished for something that was out of my control? I only ever ate what my siblings ate. It wasn't my fault if my body processed it differently. I wasn't doing this on purpose to annoy my parents. However, it would appear this was exactly what my parents thought was going on. My oldest brother, Andrew, protested on my behalf, drawing attention to his own (albeit very slight) plumpness. "That's different, you're a boy," my father said.

Our parents were highly educated, left-leaning and shared many social values, including our mother's distaste for housewifery – while Dad expected to enjoy a well-run home, he did not expect it to be at the cost of Mum's intellect or sense of fulfilment – yet neither of them saw any paradox in separating a boy's physical requirements from those of a girl. The message was loud and clear: girls need to be pretty, boys don't.

Needless to say, neither of them then went on to educate me in the ways of dieting or exercising more. In order not to annoy them and be more lovable, I simply needed to be less fat. Unsurprisingly, this method did not work. I soon learned never to express hunger around them and to eat in secret, thereby developing an inextricable emotional link between what I ate and my ability to be loved. From then on, if I eschewed pudding, potatoes and biscuits in their presence, they were pleased and congratulatory – they did love me more. If I ate anything "bad" in front of them, the reaction was guaranteed: a flamboyant roll of the eyes, heavy sighs or loud cries of, "Do you do this on purpose to annoy me?" or "Have you any idea just how fattening that is?" My mother's favourite line was, "Watching you eat is like having hot knives stuck into my eyes!" The link between worthiness and abstinence – or, in reality, thinness – was unmistakably demarcated.

This belief has never been more evident than it is today. Society prizes a girl for being thin more than anything else she might bring to the table. With this pressure in mind, and acutely aware of the trap into which my parents had fallen (I know they loved me, but they also never denied loving me more the less I weighed), when I had children, I made a decision to avoid investing food and eating with anything other than love and ease. And that's when I found out that feeding your children is a minefield – much harder than one might think before becoming a parent and, I reluctantly admit, even harder if you have a girl when you yourself are a girl with "eating issues".

I'm not letting my parents off the hook, but I now know that attempting to nurture a healthy and relaxed approach to eating is hard. My parents' generation's benchmark was simple: Fat Equals Bad. These days not only do we have that message shoved down our throats, we are also bombarded with horror stories of child obesity and the huge rise in popularity of sedentary children's activities (favoured because they'll be abducted if they're allowed to play out, so we're led to believe), plus the five-a-day fruit-and-veg diktat. (I literally break into a sweat if their bedtime approaches and I've failed to meet the target – many is the night I've tried to persuade them to eat a selection of crudités in bed.)

Little wonder it's harder than ever to foster a stress-free approach to eating. And this is particularly true for women, to whom the relentless task of providing family meals almost always falls. Women are told we need to be thin to "count", while at the same time being charged with ensuring our children eat well but not too much; that a chocolate biscuit or two is OK, but eating the whole packet is not; that being skeletal is neither healthy nor attractive. Simultaneously, we must also aim to develop in them, the next generation, an egalitarian attitude to size and gender. It's a tall order. We have to be on high alert all the time.

I've got a boy and a girl; their parents are a boy and girl (me). The boys eat more than the girls, yet aren't overweight. My 11-year-old son never thinks about what effect eating might have on his body – if he wants something, he eats it. So far, food has no emotional value for him at all. And that's just how it ought to be. My daughter, who is 12, thinks about fashion as much as most girls of her age. She eats well and healthily, the same food as her brother, but less of it. Their father and I have avoided saying anything negative when more ice-cream, chocolate, biscuits, cake, is inevitably demanded. "Everything in moderation" is the aim; nothing is off limits, just the amount. So far, so good.

But I don't know what I'd do if one of my kids began to gain weight. Naturally I'd look to myself first, and check what and how much I was providing; but what if the weight gain was the result of food they were eating outside the home, for example, chips with their mates on the way home from school? In an ideal world, I'd bite my tongue and ride this phase out, hoping it was just that – a phase. During which a loving parent, desperately trying as I am not to attach any emotional value to food, is required to stand by and let their child make their own mistakes. But I can't say that would be right, either. I wish my parents hadn't made me feel that how I looked was linked to how much they loved me. But I do also see how hard it must be to see your child pile on the pounds and trust they'll find their own way back to a healthy weight.

Being able to be around food and never wonder if there'll be enough for you, never to worry if you'll be judged for what and how much you're eating – to be able to expect and enjoy good food and to feel entitled to it – is a fantastic gift. But, like any gift worth having, in the first place someone has to give it to you.

• The Real Me Is Thin, by Arabella Weir, is published by Fourth Estate, priced £16.99. Order a copy online for £11.99 with free UK p&p, at the Guardian Book Shop.

Whether you use it as an accent shade or for your whole outfit, there's one colour you shouldn't be without come autumn

A gorgeous, unctuous pyramid pointing all the way to heaven...

Late summer and early autumn are peak time for figs. Any other time of the year, you will probably be getting fruit from great distances and, as figs don't ripen after picking, this normally means bland and dry. A great fig should look like it's just about to burst its skin. When squeezed lightly it should give a little and not spring back. It must be almost unctuously sweet, soft and wet. Once you've managed to find a fig that meets all these criteria, I guarantee a heavenly experience. Assemble this salad at the last minute and serve as a starter. Serves four.

2 small red onions
50g hazelnuts, with skin
60g radicchio, about half a small head, leaves torn roughly
40g picked basil leaves
40g picked watercress
6 ripe fresh figs
2½ tbsp olive oil, plus extra for roasting the onions
1 tbsp balsamic vinegar
¼ tsp ground cinnamon
Salt and black pepper

Set the oven to 200C/400F/gas mark 6. Peel the onions, cut each into two lengthways and then cut each half into three wedges. Place in an ovenproof dish, drizzle with a little olive oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper and roast in the oven for about 30 minutes, or until soft and golden. Remove and leave to cool. Before using, discard any dry layers and break the onions roughly with your hands into bite-size chunks.

Turn down the oven to 140C/275F/gas mark 1. Once it reaches this temperature, scatter the hazelnuts in a small roasting tray and toast for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven, allow to cool and then break roughly with the side of a big knife.

Assemble the salad on four individual plates. Mix the three leaves together and place a few on each plate. Cut the figs lengthways into four or six pieces. Place a few fig pieces and some roasted onion on the leaves. Top with more leaves and continue with the remaining fig and onion. You want to build up the salad into a small pyramid.

In a small cup, whisk together the olive oil, vinegar, cinnamon and some salt and pepper. Drizzle this over the salad and finish with a scattering of toasted hazelnuts.

• Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi in London.

Our new critic tucks into some seriously good French fare in Soho, but wonders if the chef could do with lightening up just a bit

Food blog: Tell John Lanchester what you want from his reviews

You can learn a lot about a country from its personal ads. In the UK, pretty much everybody claims to have a Good Sense of Humour, or GSOH. But the claim is so widely used that it doesn't mean anything. I often wonder what would happen if, instead of a GSOH, people said they had NSOH (No Sense of Humour), SSOH (Stupid Sense of Humour) or SOHBMOFJ (Sense of Humour Based Mainly On Fart Jokes).

The equivalent word in France is "sérieux". Everybody in French small ads claims to be sérieux, not just potential love partners, but babysitters, window cleaners, plumbers. It means serious with connotations of reliability, dignity, non-flakiness, non-clowniness; more than anything, it includes the idea that you take your work seriously.

Alexis Gauthier is sérieux. He cooked for 13 years at his restaurant Roussillon in Pimlico, establishing a strong local following but not becoming as well known as his food deserves. That's perhaps thanks to the fact that Pimlico is a bit of a non-place, and maybe also a little to his low-key, sérieux nature. Now, however, he's moved towards the bright lights and opened Gauthier Soho in the venue that used to be the Lindsay House. One of the oddities of the place is that it really is a house, which is not the same thing at all as a restaurant: kitchen and dining rooms are on different floors, so there's a lot of stair action. A restaurant has to be very well run to cope with that.

The last time I was in the building was in 2004, on the 100th anniversary of Bloomsday, the day on which Ulysses is set: 16 June. The Irish chef Richard Corrigan was running the restaurant, and I wanted to eat some Irish cooking. I mentioned this to a waiter, who recoiled as if I'd said, "I've only just met you, but let's have a gay wedding while skydiving naked." Service is smoother under the new regime – a bit hovery, perhaps, but that goes with all the Michelin palaver. It was 45 minutes from our arrival until the first course came, which would have been really annoying, except there were waves of free nibbles, involving vegetables to dip in a salsa verde, a smidgen of foie gras, and a mullet and squid sort-of escabeche. (One of the vegetable nibbles was a superb chickpea fritter – that's a panisse, as in the legendary Californian restaurant Chez Panisse.) There was also a choice of seven breads accompanied by two olive oils and two butters. There were free bits at the end of the meal, too, in the form of a (delicious) pre-dessert of raspberry, meringue, sorbet and coulis. It is a fandango, and you do have to be in the mood, because the fiddliness continues into the menu, which is a simple and very good-value deal at lunch (£18 for two courses), but in the evening lets you choose three, four or five courses (or "plats") at £35, £45 or £55. This is on-trend for fancy restaurants.

In other respects – the idea that people want a destination restaurant in Soho, the temple-of-gastronomy vibe, the sérieux and very French cooking, the slightly anxious service – the place seemed a bit like time travel. It felt like ambitious restaurants used to feel the last time I was doing this job back in 1995. What redeemed Gauthier Soho was the level of the cooking. This had some quiet patches – a pigeon dish that was a little unemphatic, lamb that also seemed polite – but at its best is truly exceptional. The best thing I ate, a risotto of summer truffles made with chicken stock, was as good a dish as any I've eaten all year, perfect in texture and extraordinary in the intensity of its flavours. I particularly liked that it made a star of summer truffles, which don't usually taste of anything much, but this made an ordinary ingredient into something really exceptional.

Perhaps Gauthier hits the top of his game when he's cooking with unflash ingredients. He says his food is "vegecentric", which is a horrible word, but on the other hand it's clear what he means. If it were my restaurant, I'd serve the cooking with fewer poncey trappings. But Gauthier can really, really cook.

Food blog: Tell John Lanchester what you want from his reviews

A new book provides a revealing insight into the creative processes of contemporary fashion designers

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FASHION DILEMMA

What does it take to get a fashion advert banned?

It was only a few weeks ago that Julianne Moore found herself shamefully cast into our Fashion Graveyard for her Bulgari advertising campaign. Now the very same advert - featuring a naked Julianne frolicking with naked lion cubs (have they NO shame?) - has been banned from St Mark's Square in Venice. "An advertisement showing a nude woman on a divan is not appropriate for St. Mark's Square," said mayor Giorgio Orsoni, causing FS to ponder whether it's the nudity or the furniture he's objecting to.

In truth the advert is far from being the most tasteless or shocking of recent times - these days nudity and sexual imagery are de rigeur for fashion houses. Once they used delicate sexual suggestion, now they use a sledgehammer, while the irony of extremely expensive clothes being sold by people not wearing any seems not to trouble them one jot.

The list of banned adverts is long and not remotely illustrious. Sophie Dahl's Opium advert, pictured above, was one of the most complained about ads in the Advertising Standards Agency history and was banned from UK billboards. In 2001, a French Connection advert of a beautiful young couple getting intimate with each other was so comprehensively banned that the advertising watchdog remarked they were amazed the creators "even had the gall to send the script in". Then there was the Elle Macpherson underwear ad, deemed too controversial for appearing to be taken by a peeping tom, despite the creators insisting it was just arty. Well of course. When is shooting a girl in her underwear through a keyhole not arty? Even less subtle was Tom Ford's Yves Saint Laurent advert [warning: not safe for work viewing] which used full frontal male nudity to sell aftershave. "Perfume is worn on the skin, so why hide the body?" said Ford, with the kind of perverse logic that probably featured in the creation of this oh-so-subtle image for Sisley.

Also on the roll call of shame is Diesel's "Be Stupid" campaign, in which girls flash at security cameras or take pictures down their own knickers. If this campaign wasn't dreamt up by someone who describes themselves as "zany" and uses the phrase "I'm not being funny but..." then FS will eat its hat. The decision to ban the ads was thoroughly vindicated by the fact that FHM thought they were pretty good (warning: don't read the comments if you wish to retain the will to live).

We could go on, with American Apparel's charmless images, Calvin Klein's naked Eva Mendes and semi-naked group orgy - sorry, art - but well, we'd rather not, thanks. Nor can be bring ourselves to dwell on the ads banned for being merely disingenuous, rather than tasteless - like Louis Vuitton's recent campaign or Kate Moss's fake lashes. Instead we will look fondly back to a more innocent age, when this advert for Jordache was banned for featuring a topless woman, covering herself demurely with her arms. We pine for those times.

BANG ON TREND

Fashion Statement on tour

Exciting news this week, for Fashion Statement is so bang on trend that we will soon be leaving on a specially-commandeered jewel-encrusted jet plane for New York fashion week, where we will be live blogging - yes LIVE blogging - the entire thing. Come back to guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle to read all about it: the latest news, gossip, celebrity spots, hideous frocks, fashion faux pas and utter taste bypasses, all LIVE on the site. Did we mention it will be live, by the way?

FASHIONISTA OF THE WEEK

FS did a few double takes at this picture. Claire Danes? Little Claire Danes? My how she's grown up. Grown up in sparkling (though rather uncomfortable looking) Giorgio Armani Privé complete with California tan and Hollywood hair.

FASHION GRAVEYARD

Now we love Mad Men with a passion the Guardian usually reserves only for The Wire or Twitter, but really, this is a hair dye advert gone wrong. We've got the blonde, the brunette, the redhead, all apparently on their way to separate weddings as bridesmaids. FS demands that for the sake of continunity and style, the cast of Mad Men use series stylist Janie Bryant for awards ceremonies as well.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK

It's impossible to imagine another designer sitting here, tanned legs folded on a unsteady wooden chair, dipping bits of bread into olive oil, talking and eating at the same time and making it all look so natural and desirable.

Elle magazine fawns over Isabel Marant, who performs the staggering act of making talking and eating look natural. Thanks to reader Rose for sending that in to Fashion Statement and quite putting us off our lunch.

OUT AND ABOUT

Find out what life is like on the fashion desk of a national newspaper plus what to wear - and what not to wear - this autumn in our very own Guardian Extra event. The event takes place on 8 September in Guardian Towers, aka Kings Place, and you'll even get a glass of bubbly. Full details at guardian.co.uk/extra

A new pop-up shop has, well, popped up just behind Carnaby Street, stocking current ethical collections from lovely brands including Lowie, Annie Greenabelle, Pachacuti, Ley Ley jewellery, Monkee Genes, Veja and Good One, with more brands being added daily. All net proceeds from the shop go to the Envionmental Justice Foundation''s work defending the environment and protecting human rights.
Pop Eco, Environmental Justice Foundation, 1st Floor Kingly Court, Soho London W1B 5PW ejfoundation.org

Time your visit to the EJF shop for 11 September, when Catwalk Carnaby will be on show. This free catwalk show will be on at 12pm, 2pm and 4pm and feature the latest autumn/winter collections. Shoppers can also enjoy other free fashion activities during the day, including style advice, discounts, DJ sets and even special fashion menus. Full details at carnaby.co.uk

SHOPPING NEWS

Shearling jacket hunters, credit cards at the ready: the gorgeous ASOS Revive collection launches today and includes this season's most ubiqutious item (see above). FS also loves the delicate vintage-style slip dresses and underwear. Asos.com

FS loves EggMag so is very pleased to hear that the team will be creating a range of merchandise on their new online shop. 4% of the profits will go to charity, and you will be able to buy greetings cards, re-usable organic cotton shoppers and of course, subscriptions to the magazine, with more items appearing over the next few months. Find it at eggmag.bigcartel.com

OFFCUTS

Pining for yet more shearling? Check out the Observer fashion team's guide to getting the look

She may be a newcomer on the designer scene, but Victoria Beckham has already been nominated for a major award

Hadley Freeman advises you never to wear animal prints, unless you are a mascot for a lame football team

For all the latest fashion news, visit guardian.co.uk/fashion.

News to tell us? Email kate.carter@guardian.co.uk.

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This is a quick, simple and delicious way to serve cauliflower, similar in many ways to cauliflower cheese, but lighter. Pair with roast chicken or any other white meat. Sourdough has a lovely flavour; make the breadcrumbs by pulsing broken-up slices in a food processor.

Jesper Groenvold is 52, returning to London from the United States, and needs a car. He wants comfort on the motorway and good handling when on the back roads. The car can't be too big because Jesper will be fighting for parking spaces in London NW1. He is also a keen cyclist, so getting a bike in the back is important, and most of the time there will only ever be two people in the car. Easy to clean leather seats are a must, and his budget is around £15,000.

This is a very enjoyable meal, except for one thing: there's a curled green caterpillar in the middle of the plate. He's not even a small caterpillar. He's a long, fairly fat boy with a healthy yet unappetising wiggle to him, despite his stay in the salad. The waitress is surprisingly unsurprised: "The leaves are organic," she tells me, as if that explains why they didn't get a proper wash.

Sandsend is the new Southwold. You heard it here first – unless, of course, you live in the north-east of England and are now sighing impatiently, in which case please forgive my ignorance. So, Sandsend. This little seaside town is a couple of miles north of Whitby in North Yorkshire and has a charm and freshly scrubbed appeal missing from many of our more, shall we say "developed", resorts. The local shop sells great coffee and locally made jam. The coffee bar on the promenade has vibrant hanging baskets and good lunchtime surfers' fuel.

Creamy white clusters enfurled by the palest green leaves: cauliflower is both flavoursome and beautiful. From silky smooth soups to simple purées and salads, this humble, very English vegetable can be a wonderful addition to any table.

Electric cars really are coming.