A story about quiche, that's not about quiche.

My father always asked about quiche. It annoyed me, at the time.

He turned up, once, in the middle of the night. Unannounced, a confusion of amber lights from the breakdown recovery vehicle flashing in the hallway. “Hullo”, he said, as I stared out from behind the door.

The next day we went into town, this stranger and me. “What would you like?” At the counter. “Quiche.” I replied. He laughed, a proper Cockney belly laugh. “You like quiche do you?!” The smile creasing his eyes into wrinkles in the corners. I hated being laughed at. I didn't see what was funny. The laugh turned into a smoker’s cough, as all his laughs did.

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Food is evocative. Long lost memories tangled up in a single dish or ingredient - the sight or smell whisking us straight back to a moment from our past in a flurry of nostalgia.

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