Growing up in Luton, we’d always eat on a cloth, placed on the floor of the living room, with no TV allowed. There were no chairs back in Bangladesh and Dad wanted to keep the tradition, so we never owned a dining table. Rice was our staple, with seven or eight curries at each evening meal, Bangladeshi style. We’d sit in a circle, with me nearest the gas heater, because I was always cold.

Dad was a chef with his own Indian restaurant and he’d bring home his tools, gadgets, widgets and big mixing machines, and – although he wouldn’t admit it – make quite Anglicised curries. Whereas for Mum everything was simple-simple, stripped back and traditional. She’d never do bulk cooking, whereas he’d buy a whole sheep every Friday. He’d come home from work and badger Mum to do things properly, saying, “You’re not cutting that onion right”, and she’d look at him as if to say, “I don’t care – I’m bringing up six children.” They’re the funniest couple; always battling, but with a strange camaraderie.

Most summers we went to Bangladesh and stayed in Grandad’s village, filled with relatives. I’m one of 67 grandchildren. The main thing I noticed is that we ate more than everyone else there. They ate tiny portions, partly because they had lots of children, and never snacked. We’d have biscuits, crisps and chocolate in between meals and they’d have nothing, unless they happened to find a mango on a tree.

The concept of dessert doesn’t exist in Bangladeshi cuisine and so the only time we had it was at school. The only reason we had an oven at home was because it came attached to the cooker. Mum would keep her frying pans in there and anything else that would fit. Storage was its only use. So I had no idea where cakes came from until I was a teenager. When I got into baking it was a big surprise; no one could fathom it.

I also have a senseless love affair with cheese. My mother never bought any because there was none in Bangladeshi cuisine. I was introduced to it – and grapes and crackers – at school and it was very painful because then I’d crave cheese every night at home. It felt very English – and French. I seem to fall in love with things I wasn’t brought up with. Sometimes there’s nothing better than finding another cuisine and loving it differently.

Porridge reminds me of Dad being in hospital. He needed a blood transfusion and was possibly high on morphine, because he’d rave on and on about the porridge. He really loved that porridge in hospital, then refused to believe anyone could make porridge as well as the nurse, who I think he secretly fancied.

As a teenager I became quite strong-willed and would question a lot of things – asking “Why?” when Mum or Dad said things. I’d want straight answers. I was discovering things like food and the opposite sex and I’d say: “You’re not telling me the truth. Talk to me.” I remember once we were cutting the lawn and I asked Dad what grass tastes like and we ended up cooking grass together, as an experiment. It didn’t taste good. That’s why cows eat it, not humans.

I first met my husband on the day we got married, when I was 20. I moved to be with him in Leeds, 165 miles from Luton. The kitchen was absolutely tiny. But I got my first hand-held mixer and first set of scales and first blue cake tin from Tesco and that was very exciting. I really mourned not being with my parents, yet having a kitchen of my own – where I wasn’t told off for using all the eggs – was a breath of fresh air.

Once I had my lovely husband, home and kids, I got comfortable, I suppose, and the weight piled on. But then I looked at myself one day and thought, “Do something about this, Nadiya.” In the year before Bake Off I shed three and a half stone – in six months. But I still wanted to eat whatever I liked – sausages and mash is one guilty pleasure – so I’d walk at least eight miles every day to justify it.

Since I was eight, if ever I was going out and thought I might be in a situation where I might get stressed, I’d carry a paper bag, to control my breathing during panic attacks. Almost nothing or anything could trigger one off. I remember once, when I hadn’t seen my parents for six weeks, I travelled down from Leeds to Luton and was hyperventilating from the sheer joy. Sometimes, when I was struggling, including during Bake Off, they’d travel up and fill my freezer full with cooked meals sealed in Tupperware containers. That was their way of showing how much they loved me.

When I made a quiche Lorraine for the first time, it fell on the floor, the whole thing. At times like that, it’s a takeaway for our dinner.

When I went into Bake Off I never imagined I’d come out the other end elevated and a role model – for Bangladeshis, bakers, Muslims, women and all; I didn’t expect any of it. If I am a role model, in a positive manner for anyone, I’m very happy to bear the burden. But I strive to be a role model for my children and that’s about as far as I go.

My children are pitilessly honest about my food. I’d made a bavarois cream pudding – with white chocolate and lavender – and was so excited to bring it out of the fridge, thinking, “The kids are going to love this.” I asked my son, seven at the time, “Will you give this a go?” He spooned some in his mouth but said, “Is that a joke? Don’t ever do that to me again. It’s disgusting.” I said, “Well, that’s not going in the [Bake Off] tent then.”

Nadiya’s Kitchen is out now (Michael Joseph, £20). Click here to order a copy for £16