The TV personality, chef, musician and author has made her cultural mark, but has faced her fights – racism, violence, grief, poverty as a single mum. How did this nascent national treasure turn trauma into triumph?

There’s a stockpot simmering on Andi Oliver’s stove – for days, the broth has been bubbling. A mugful of the rib-sticking, rich elixir lands in front of me as I’m ushered into her east London kitchen from the cold. She ladles out a flask-full for Garfield, her boyfriend of 30 years, then peers into the saucepan. “I’ve not been well,” says Oliver, “and this has healed me.” She spent the past two months filming in Stratford-upon-Avon, where she always had a similar soup on the go. “It’s giving yourself the care you need. And sharing it with other people doesn’t just fix you, but briefly, the world around you.” Supplies depleted, she begins to rebuild the brew from its bones: pinches of cloves, juniper and star anise are dropped in. A glug of white wine. Taste, then season. No measurements, just instinct. “I started cooking young,” Oliver explains. “To me, it’s everyday magic. Giving you that broth is sharing a little bit of myself – a soul exchange.” Briefly, there’s a moment of serenity.

Scout, the ageing family dog, comes in barking. The phone rings, twice. Unidentified clattering upstairs. Hers is a house that’s lived in. “Just to flag,” Oliver warns, “anyone might just appear. This place is like Piccadilly Circus.” A steady stream of people do wander through. First, Kelly, close colleague and confidante. Garfield next. Then Oliver’s mum pootles through, nonplussed by a stranger’s presence. Soon to turn 88, she moved in a couple of years back. “Oh, and that’s Amanda Mealing,” Oliver says, as the former Holby City star pops her head around the door. “We met doing a play with Paul O’Grady – Lily Savage was one of her son’s godmothers, and I’m the other one.” There might be other houseguests, Oliver can’t be certain.