Nonna grew up in Bardi, a village near Parma in the Emilia-Romagna region of Italy. In 1933, at 19, she married my grandfather. In the same year, they came to Britain, joining my grandfather's two brothers, who had settled in Wales and opened a fish-and-chip shop.

My mother, their eldest child, was born a few months later. But when the second world war broke out, male Italian citizens living in this country were interned. My grandfather was interned in Liverpool and Ascot, and his brother on the Isle of Wight. The third brother stayed in his attic, hiding from the police.

Nonna was left to run the shop and look after six small children. After the war, the men returned and everyone moved to London, where my grandfather and his two brothers each set up their own fish-and-chip shop — in Dagenham, Barking and Becontree. Mum married my dad, a merchant seaman, but he died when I was only seven, leaving Mum with three children under the age of 10. It was tough, so we went to live nearer to Nonna in Upminster.

Nonna became an integral part of my life. Her name was Clorinda. She was striking to look at — auburn hair, bright-blue eyes, high cheekbones and a great figure. If she could afford it, she'd buy only the best of clothes and she always looked prim. The same was true of her house. Everything was in its place, down to the last china cup and folded napkin. So with Mum often still at work, when we finished school we'd go to Nonna's for tea. And with an older brother and a younger sister, I was the one left to help Nonna in the kitchen. This, to me, was where all the real activity went on.

Coming from a region of Italy that prides itself on its pasta, Nonna would probably say that making it was in her blood, something she could do with her eyes shut. She'd begin by throwing handfuls of flour onto the table and forming a hole in the centre. She would then whisk eggs in a bowl, adding small amounts of oil and water. This was added to the flour gradually. Nonna never weighed anything — it was all done all'occhio, by eye. She'd then knead it. This was laborious, and when I was older I tried persuading her to buy a Robot Coupe to do the kneading, but each time, she'd say, "Angela, a mano" — it's all done by hand. It's all done with love.

Once the kneading was finished, her big wooden board and pasta cutters would come out, and I'd roll out the pasta. From there on, I'd watch and help her turn it into all sorts of dishes — tortelli filled with pumpkin, ravioli of spinach, ricotta and parmesan cheese, tagliatelle with dried ceps or porcini, anolini filled with braised beef and veal. When I became the head chef at the Connaught, this particular dish of hers was put on my first menu.

The anolini would be top of her list for Christmas. In November we'd prepare hundreds of them, which she'd freeze and use to make a special broth for our starter on Christmas Day. The meal was a mixture of British and Italian influences, but it would always begin with this and end with her delicious zabaglione served in elegant glasses, with amaretto biscuits.

Nonna would not tolerate waste or shoddy produce. She'd send me back to the shop if something wasn't good enough, and leftovers were used to concoct the next meal — everything from new pasta fillings to tortas. Probably my favourite dish was her cipolle ripiene, or stuffed onions, which she would make with wild mushrooms and ragout. It's a recipe I'm still trying to perfect — as my brother makes a point of reminding me!

When I began working for Gordon Ramsay, Nonna was there to give me tips. She was still making pasta in her eighties — in fact, until the last six months of her life, when she was diagnosed with cancer. Nonna passed away in July 1995, and a day doesn't go by when I don't think of her. I was given all her pasta equipment and her big wooden board, and with all the grief that followed in our family this was very comforting. It still is. I don't think I could have had been given anything more precious.