It's a modest ambition, trying to get around Sainsbury's without having an unnerving moment, but what we want is not always possible. My most recent brush with supermarket angst came in the chilled-meats section when I was ambushed by a fresh Spam fritter. Immediately, something seemed wrong. Spam, after all, is tinned goods, part of the arsenal of long-lasting, catastrophe-proof foods that sustained our armies and enabled them to defeat the forces of fascism, not to mention a staple of pennywise British households in times of deprivation and frugality. (In a Proustian moment, I realise that I may long have associated luncheon meat with war because of the way it used to be served at my infant school; turned out of the catering-size can and halved from top to bottom, then laid flat, the imprint of the tin making it look like nothing more than the still-standing Anderson shelter at the bottom of our garden.)

Spam's charm, I continue to believe, lies in its tinny exterior, imperishability and economy, not in its rebirth as a ready-meal to be weighed up alongside lamb rogan josh and luxury fish pie. To find it suddenly promoted to the world of the cook-chill cabinets jarred hideously. Added to which, it looked almost implausibly unpleasant.

But tinned food has a bad press these days. Almost nobody is delighted by the fact that you can still get cans of high-quality condensed soup for 49p, rather than fork out the best part of two quid for a carton that tastes almost exactly the same - despite the fact that the tinned variety is far more versatile should you need to whip up a casserole in a hurry. Most people are unstinting in their admiration for tinned sardines on toast, a supper dish that answers the demands of the pocket, the busy lifestyle, the quest for health and even the need to boost the brain cells, but one can't help feeling that sales of sild must be on the wane, let alone the mackerel fillets in a light curry sauce that used to feature on so many student menus in days now sadly seen off by Mexican bean wraps.

This is not just irony-tinged nostalgia, though, nor a kneejerk reaction to the kind of food snobbery that denies the truth - that cling peaches are an almost unsurpassable sweet-toothed invention; that it is no accident that Popeye was devoted to ripping the tops off cans of spinach rather than gently steaming fresh leaves; or that you can do a lot worse when feeling low and sad than to open a tin of Ambrosia creamed rice.

There is something about opening a kitchen cupboard nicely replete with a range of tins - a few soups, a healthy spread of beans from baked to cannellini, fish, fruit, a judicious selection of vegetables and, a no-brainer for the carnivorous, the evergreen corned beef - that makes one feel properly equipped for the struggle ahead, whether it be nuclear winter, sudden poverty or unexpected guests.

It's a larky in-joke among spoiled metrosexuals that one owns a fridge simply in order to store the food one has bought before one throws it away. It's actually a rather revolting truth that rarely a week goes by in my household without a pillow pack of assorted leaves or a greenish chop hitting the bin. But why is that funny, or acceptable? Why not buy the food you need to eat, and if you don't need it, don't buy it, thereby refusing to participate in the carnival of domestic waste or the mountain of personal debt so frequently used to hector you or frighten you half to death?

Because life isn't that predictable, I guess, and because you don't entirely want to turn into the kind of person who turns down an impromptu invitation because the mince is about to go out of date. No need to worry, though, should you have at your disposal the makings of corned beef hash (which retails for an improbably buoyant price at a restaurant just up the road from this newspaper's offices), or a self-cosseting delicacy such as a tinned oyster or heart of palm or that meal in a tin that comprised baked beans and sausage and bacon bits and something vaguely like chopped-up egg, which went by the name of something like The London Breakfast.

A couple of tins of crab meat and some rice - instant risotto; a can of Bonduelle celery hearts and a bit of old cheese from the back of the fridge - a simple gratin. Don't even get me started on Celebrity Bacon Grill, though my personal ne plus ultra is Fray Bentos; surely you can't can pastry?

And, should you follow the example of Brenda, the character created and played by Victoria Wood in the sitcom Dinnerladies, you too can introduce an element of surprise into making the tea by taking the labels off all your tins and seeing what comes up when you open them. There are few enough opportunities to nurture an air of mystery in modern life; don't pass them up when I offer them to you on a plate.

Corned beef hash

Serves 6

6 large potatoes, peeled and cut into chunks

1 x 340g can corned beef, cut into chunks

1 medium onion, chopped

1 cup beef stock (can be made from a stock cube)

Heat a little oil in a large deep saucepan, over medium heat, and fry the onion until soft. Add the potatoes and brown on all sides then add the corned beef and stock. Cover and simmer until potatoes are soft, and the liquid is almost gone. Mix well, and serve.