Forget mists and mellow fruitfulness: as Autumn wraps its damp, leaf-smelling arms around us like an unwelcome Hare Krishna, it’s time to stock up. Get eating. Pile it on. Because winter is coming and even if you’re not actually going to lie down in a box full of newspaper in your mother’s basement for three months, you should still hibernate. After meals, between meetings, under your desk, and on the bus if needs be. You must fill your face with flavour and reassurance.

To get you in the mood to carb-load, calorie-consume, and generally revel in the world of all things tasty, here is This Week in Food Porn, MUNCHIES’ guide to the most delicious pics posted to Instagram in the past seven days.

Grab a fork and dig in to total conker.

I love the smell of a Sarah Lucas joke in the morning. Especially when it comes with a side serving of refried beans. Get yer eggs out for the ranchers, lads and don’t be shy with the avocado.

Sometimes, when it comes to food photography, subtle nuance can go whistle up a biscuit. Autumn’s here, so what the fuck? Let’s just hold our phone above a giant gourd and give the people what they want. Bang. Orange. On ya.

The most handsome man is a man who looks like he’s standing behind a very warped window: giant nose, huge mouth, massive chin. Give me a facial appendage that can lift furniture and I’ll give you the keys to my heart.

Sometimes a “salad” is basically flesh, sugar, salt, and fat laid across a plate like a map to everlasting happiness. And don’t you forget it.

How do you apply to be a forager? Do you have to move to Denmark? Because I’ve got a passport, a pair of old VW overalls, and am really good with nettle stings (not in a sex way).

I feel about gluten-free the way Vin Diesel feels about those lie-down bicycles: there but for the grace of God, testosterone, and a devil-may-care attitude to seeing my 80s. But even I have to admit that figs—probably literature’s third favourite cunnilingus metaphor—are in their element at the moment, even surrounded by gluten free baking.

There’s just something about quantity, isn’t there? When a batch slowly, surprisingly, starts to look like an invasion—like something that Sigourney Weaver would start peeling off her neck and shooting with a gun. And yet, if there is any greater joy on this earth that baked flour and fat, I’d like to meet it.

Fanks mate. I bladdy well will. ‘Ad an ‘ell of a bovver wiv my French beans, know what I mean? Couldn’t get the little pricks past the flowering stage. But these beans, mate. These beans look the facking business.

Because, of course, summer is coming to New Zealand. Which means shredded pink holiday plans, corn-wrapped beach beauty, and freshly squeezed sun tans. Oh, for another hemisphere.

Under the sea is basically a constellation of magical, blubber-based stars and sucking fleshy satellites. A spray across my plate; a salty supernova in my mouth.