To live in my house is to know gustatory joy. I wake each morning, thinking only of dinner. What shall I cook for them all today? What glorious dish shall I present to my lucky family tonight? Shall I head to the hot and numbing embrace of Sichuan or the darker flavours of northern Spain? Will salted anchovies be involved somewhere in the profound depths of a sauce with more power and oomph than a Porsche 911 Turbo? They often are. I have cupboards full of condiments and sauces. I am rich in ground cumin, dried chillies and sticky pots of tamarind. I have the kitchen skills, the determination and the monumental greed needed to execute brilliant food for every meal. Being part of my family is to win the culinary lottery of life.

Or perhaps not. Recently, as I was serving up my latest creation – it may have been the long-braised ox cheeks in a spiced tomato sauce from a recipe by José Pizarro, or perhaps the teriyaki chicken – I asked my loved ones what they’d had for dinner on a previous night when I’d been out. It was a casual question, with a far less than casual intent. I wanted to know just how much they’d missed me. My wife, Pat, sat up and grinned. “Sausage sandwiches,” she said. “It was great.” My boys joined in. Oh yeah, doughy, cheap white bread, and the crap sausages, not those annoying ones with too much actual meat in them, and nowhere near enough nipple and nostril. The three of them fell to discussing the thrills of their sausage sandwich fest. I blinked. Sausage sandwiches? For dinner? Pat shrugged, and dug around at the lovingly crafted plate of utter wonderfulness in front of her. “We have to wait for you to go out to be able to do that sort of thing.”

I thought we had a shared family culture. I thought the intricate food I served was an “us” thing, not a “me” thing. Now, all of a sudden, I discover that sometimes, like Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mrs Brown’s Boys, I am merely tolerated; that there are things they like to do together from which I must be protected. Did I even really know them any more?

Let’s be clear. They do appreciate much of what I cook. Cooing noises are made. Plates are cleared. I wear the praise lightly, and wouldn’t ever crow about any of that in public, say, in a national newspaper column. By the same token, I am not all about roast swan with caviar chasers. I really do love a sausage sandwich. There’s even a place in my life for a cheap sausage sandwich, made with white bread you can return to its dough-like state if you squeeze the crumb between thumb and index finger.

But not for bloody dinner. That’s a moment to take things seriously. It’s an opportunity, a time to put your back into it. Or at least so I thought. I have read about high-flying Michelin starred chefs who, at the end of a long service tweezering perfectly cooked ingredients into place, want nothing more than a Pot Noodle or a bag of chips. But it didn’t occur to me that this food fatigue might extend unto the family of a committed, well-meaning, belly-obsessed restaurant critic. One night not long ago, it turned out I would be back for dinner when I had thought I’d be out. Pat was in charge that evening. What were we having? Jacket potatoes with grated cheese and baked beans. I’d never seen them all look so damn happy. Really. I don’t know why I bother.