When people talk about French food, they usually picture the Michelin-star temples of gastronomy, where dishes come plated like abstract art, and the line between meal and performance blurs entirely.

A few months ago, I packed my entire life into one suitcase. I was moving from one continent to another, but there was no fixed destination on the other side.

We’d been rattling down the track  in the safari car for over an hour. It was one of those misty mornings when the savannah stirs slowly, the air still cool, the golden-pink light just beginning to stretch over the tall grass.

I never meant to move to Sweden. But after a year of near-total darkness (and a lot of kanelbullar) I learned how to find the light.