IT’S funny how the taste of something can really take you back to a place and time, or remind of you somewhere.

One of my earliest memories is sitting at my grandmother’s little kitchen table, eating mashed potato from one of her little patterned china bowls. That’s possibly why I love old-fashioned china so much now; it takes me back to a time and a place where I remember feeling completely safe.

In her tiny two up two down terraced house, I’d sit in the corner eating my spuds and butter before going back to threading buttons from Granny’s button tin on to a piece of string.

She died when I was four, and this is the only memory of her which I think is mine, rather than being something someone else told me or that I have created based on a photograph.

The power of sense memories came back to me recently whilst we were on holiday in Spain.

The moment that we arrived, I was desperate to source the two things I remembered absolutely loving when I visited the country as a young child with my parents, more than 30 years ago.

Lo and behold, there both those things right on my doorstep in our hotel, and both products were practically unchanged by the passage of so much time.

The two things I was so keen to taste were simple (fattening) pleasures, Spanish doughnuts – known simply as “donuts” and Spanish chocolate milk.

The former were available in multipacks at the hotel shop, hurrah, so I swiftly stocked up on the basic glazed variety which were as simple and perfect as ever.

The latter, the chocolate milk, was a little tougher to come across as there are a number of Spanish brands of the latter available, but it was Cacaolat, with its distinctive retro yellow branding, that I was so desperate to get my hands on.

Praise be, it was available at the beach club bar where we spent every day. Even better, it was completely free of charge, so I consumed an estimated 12 zillion chocolate milk calories over two weeks.

The moment the first sip entered my mouth via a cheerful straw, I closed my eyes and was right back at the hotel bar as a child many years before, holding a treasured glass bottle of the milk in my tiny hands.

Strange as it sounds, I think I could feel how utterly content I would have been in that moment, happy to have been permitted such a treat by my dad.

It reminded me of the joy I see in my daughter’s face when she spots a Mr Kipling Angel Slice (her favourite) or a little iced fairy cake with sprinkles – and, crucially, is allowed to have a treat.

It’s a little silly bit of happiness, surely what we define as ‘comfort eating’ in its purest sense.

Salad and biscuit deprivation, both of which I’m indulging in now post all of the holiday indulgences, rarely have the same effect in cheering a person up! Ah well, everything in moderation in order to prevent despair created by muffin tops and bigger bellies…