Harumi Kurihara...My Saviour!

Studies nigh over, I recently took the plunge and moved into my own place after a budget-cutting extended sleepover at my grandparents'. (I'm quite aware that this piece of information makes me sound like a premium loser, but that's okay. They're good people. Thanks again, nan & paps!) Considering that I'll be 28 in a couple of sleeps, you'd think it was about blooming time!

Anyhow, I’ve thus far managed to gather together some beautiful plants for my flat balcony (most of which will have to wait till next month to be paired with actual pots, as it goes), decorative-but-functional kitchenware and a bad-ass Japanese chef's knife (a knife that slices through butternut like butter, but which, if I'm really honest, I only picked out because it was a lovely turquoise blue). I also have lots of books and cds. Other than that, the general feel of my new home is minimalist. A TV (sans aerial), a couch that used to be inhabited by my aunt's dogs, one faded-but-very-comfy pouf, a futon, and a vanity table that appealed to me as a writer's desk and became my first Grown-Up Purchase*. (While it may look/sound impractical, its close proximity to the ground makes it Just Right for this vertically-challenged lass.) So, slowly but surely, the process of nesting has begun. Well, not so much 'nesting' as the making of a space where I can write and read for my personal pleasure and cook, hopefully, for the pleasure of others (and there is pleasure in that for me, too, of course).

But whatever you call it, it can be an at times daunting task. There's the dustpan and broom you only realise you need when you're using your index finger to pick up all the little shards from the smashed wineglass your inebriated friend just let fly. And then there's the shiny-apple-red KitchenAid that parades itself in front of you every time you visit @Home, flaunting a price tag you know to be well WELL outside your monthly income. I know I sound like I'm whining here (and that's because I am) but before you've locked peepers with that hunk of handsome metal and its whipping/juicing/blending/extrapolating/atomising facilities, be forewarned: Your panty lining might just evaporate*. No jokes.

Behold and weep! The Artisan Mixer... For God saw and said, "Hotdang! I'm good!"

I think, too, that whether we like to admit it or not, being 'Well-Adjusted' and 'Adult' and other words like that, it generally seems to mean you've accumulated stuff in your life. You are able to provide a knife and fork for each and every one of your dinner guests, for instance. You don't serve your food from the surface of a cardboard box. That's another example. If your guests are lucky, they can drink wine out of a decent glass, rather than out of the bottle. (And in their defense, I happen to have friends who -- bless them and their kind little cotton socks -- wouldn't bat an eye if I were to ask them to eat with their hands* from a cardboard box whilst slugging their wine as it comes 'in glass.')

Nonetheless, I am very wary of this accumulation business. I’ve watched women purchase shoes at R2000 a pop for their 5-year-old daughter. I’ve watched on as these same women swipe their credit cards for ridiculously priced designer gumboots. More ridiculous is that these women seldom seem to actually garden, or play out in the rain (which might be another way of putting designer gumboots to good use).

All that said, I like pretty things. I can’t wait for my little Desert Rose to surprise and delight me with its bold, scarlet flowers. I love, too, the craftsmanship in old things, in details that might never be noticed, but have been executed with such finesse just because. Pretty, pretty things.

When it does flower for me, it’ll apparently look like this!

So where does a newly-sprung ‘Adult’ draw the line when carving out a place for themselves in this consumerist-driven world?

Befuddled, it was Harumi Kurihara who came to my rescue -- not personally of course, but through a consumerist-driven purchasing of Harumi’s Japanese Cooking. In my defense, it was discovered at a 50% off book sale. (And as all savvy ‘Adults’ know, the fastest way to save a buck is to spend half a buck!) To Harumi’s credit, I’d been coveting the pages of her book for weeks. But I’d also promised to make a concerted effort to curb my book-buying ways. This was yet another attempt to prove to others (namely my grandparents) that I reallyreally was an ‘Adult’.

So Fate conspired, and I was finally able to claim the book I’d been longing to have and to hold…

At the risk of sounding silly, when I sat down with Harumi’s Japanese Cooking it was as if I’d found a secret spot of quiet. The roar of the city first became a squeak, then nothingness… I dipped one toe in the cool of a pond, with the pretty blossoms and dappled light of a wild pear tree overhead… And it was like this, that I began to read Harumi’s wonderful contribution to the world of food…

    Of course, all these things were only in my head. Well, other than the bit about reading Harumi’s book. That wasn’t in my head, unless you’re implying that I wasn’t reading aloud.

   But there are things that feel so real that they might just be. So please believe me when I say honestly and truly I couldn’t over-emphasise my next point enough.

Harumi Kurihara is a global treasure.

I find myself surrounded daily by gross excess on one side, and gross impoverishment on the other. People are more likely it seems, in this country of mine, to ask after the size of their steak than its origin or the quality of the meat. And they could care less about the vegetables served on the side. Pizza-franchise, Debonairs, shamelessly stuffs their pizza crusts with sausage or cheese or both, layering their bases with cream-cheese filling. And they’ll merrily throw in a free 2 litre of Coca Cola while they’re at it, because they value their customer

that much.

But when I turn to Harumi’s ways of cooking and eating, I'm met with an approach that is nothing if not reverent. Instead of building towers of meat and chips and cheese sauce on a veritable smorgasbord of a plate, Harumi proposes Japanese plating where each ‘accompaniment’ is considered a prized dish. It is placed in an individual bowl where it can be individually appreciated as well as for its contribution to the larger ensemble.

     Contrast and diversity similarly emerge as key ingredients when it comes to the Japanese table, as Harumi advocates the importance of balance. This is apparent not only in her food, but also in the presentation. Shoots of bamboo add a freshness in flavour during the warm summer months, while glass bowls and bamboo wood surfaces create an equally ‘cooling’ aesthetic. In the colder months, the earthy comfort of mushrooms replaces the bamboo in cooking, with lacquered dishes becoming the winter-serving staple. Because of this, Harumi remarks that Japanese women are unlikely to go out and buy dinner-sets for their homes. Rather, they will slowly acquire small and unique items for their dinner tables over a lifetime. Again, Harumi returns readers to the principles of contrast, diversity and an unmistaken reverence for life’s simpler bounties.

Food served with reverence from Everyday Harumi

Her books are not about impossible-to-find ingredients or hours of finicky detail and drudgery in the kitchen. They're about remembering what is important, what is good in being a living, breathing human bean. Thanks to the shared wisdoms of Harumi Kurihara -- who graces my kitchen with both Harumi’s Japanese Cooking and Everyday Harumi (equally invaluable!) -- gone is the sense of panic and inadequacy when I look at my sparse-ish environment. I now see, in every room, the opportunity of a lifetime to fill a space with love. A space brimming with a love for friends, food and beauty seems not only do-able, but safely do-able from the confines of my debit card.    

Some Asterisk-ed Asides:

*This is only because I'm not so sure a rainbow-striped hammock marked down to R75 qualifies as a Grown-Up Purchase.

*I have to pay due homage to Pitchfork's Al Green re-issue review for this comparative 'panty-lining' gem!

*My point aside, I am quite a fan of hands-on eating and feel something akin to pity (and confusion) when people are compelled to eat their pizza with a knife and fork. Ag shame.

The Case of a Good Book, in the Case of Laetitia Maklouf's "The Virgin Gardener"

There are books that hold literary merit, that leave the mind notoriously ponder-some. They go on to make for bohemian-inspired (and still ponder-some) conversations over the umpteenth glass of wine, between bored nibbles from a generous cheese spread (for the non-lactose-intolerant, of course). These are Great Books.     

     A good book, I think, is a slightly different cultivar. It might never make it to the dinner table or be the cause of some or other betwixt expression. And while we’re on the subject, it is very unlikely to sacrifice its heroine’s tragically pretty-but-proud head to an oncoming train.

The good book is more akin to that strange auntie with the interminable warm smile (the kind that makes her seem a little loopy, let’s be honest). Cynicism being the new ‘cool’ (‘kewl’…?) since word got out that smoking kills, we try to resist her strange brand of charm. We arm ourselves with the strategic and artful yawn, not to mention a set of opposable thumbs ready to strike at our cell phone’s keypad.

And no, we can’t possibly stay for a pot of tea, you daft bat!

      But our resistance is short-lived as that first sip of lovingly steeped, fragrant tea confirms that, yup, no doubt about it…what we do know is very little.

Well, Laetitia Maklouf is that daft, batty aunt (albeit in an uncharacteristically alluring package) and her book, The Virgin Gardener, is as fragrant and lovely a pot of tea as I’ve ever chanced upon.
       And to think it all started with a virgin-esque flirtation of my own…



Demurely making eyes at me from the gardening section of Fogarty’s Bookshop, there was the author sitting sweet as a posy in a pair of cocktail-umbrella-pink suede boots (entering the ‘shabby-chic’ stage of their shoe-lives), surrounded by potted plants, twine, and a floral hand-trowel. Unlike your usual gardening-book affair, there were no pristine lawns in sight, nor was she framed by one of those extensive vegetable gardens (you know the kind… the kind that looks like it could single-handedly supply the local greengrocer.)

     Instead, this smiling gardener was off-set only by a climb of concrete steps and promising “Inspiration for the first-time gardener.” Turning to the blurb at the back presented further intrigue with a pair of army-green gumboots (and the sort that have seen some genuine soil-action, no less, not those plaid yummy-mummy ones!) befriended by some (again) undeniably pink, patent leather peep-toes. This time, the book assured it would show me “how to get intimate with plants and sex up [my] living space.”
      Curiouser and curiouser.

     I’m a fan of the pretty and the quirky, so let’s just say that by this point Maklouf and her team at Bloomsbury Publishing were beginning to ‘ding ding ding’ like three cherries in a line-up.

But the real bait was this one single and simple promise that I will be forever grateful for:  Maklouf's promise to offer the gift of gardening “without the complicated jargon and off-putting diagrams.” And I thank her most because –as is so often emphatically NOT the case –this was a promise made and kept.

I could pretend that such a promise would underestimate (or worse, that dreaded passive-aggressive verb: patronise!) me. But this would be a big fat lie. In fact, I’ll admit it, gardening can be a little scary, and the nursery is really just a place for people who know what they’re doing to show-off with a vast plethora of stuff that is vaguely familiar but really quite incomprehensible to me.
     (Disclaimer: I know this is unfair to nurseries, and that there are many out there representing the life’s work of knowledgeable people who well-and-truly want to share it so that we can all come to know the pleasures of gardening – which feels not unlike world peace. In my defence, the fear of a choice of four different potting soils is not a rational one.)

But just like many others, I was once enchanted by Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden, where the sour-faced and recently orphaned Mary discovers a magical world within the walls of a hidden and neglected garden. Alright, so I didn’t have a brooding but ultimately very kind uncle/benefactor, or a pseudo-crippled cousin whom no one liked because he was a lonely but selfish boy or – now that you mention it – a cheery, heath-wandering ragamuffin prone to fancy-free banter with an inquisitive red-breasted robin…
       But didn’t I, too, deserve my very own patch of earth in which to watch little green things spring up as if to say ‘peekaboo’?

      
And something about this book seemed to agree with me, nodding enthusiastically Yes, yes, you do.

Upon a closer inspection, it was also apparently okay to want these things even if I didn’t remotely possess a space one could call a ‘garden’ – or, at least not unless one was liberally experimenting with the word in the broadest metaphorical sense. Contrariwise, Maklouf was revealed by the bio as “a sassy girl-about-town and self-confessed plant-murderer who fell in love with plants a few years ago […] and dreams of having a garden of her own one day.” This instantly made hers, in my (im)modest opinion, one of the most refreshing gardening books around.

      It’s simple really. No matter where you live and how you live, no matter the size of your window-ledge or patch of outwardly-inclined land, The Virgin Gardener wholeheartedly confirms that you can grow your tomato and eat it.

"One perfect mouthful, one slow squeeze...one sweet explosion inside the mouth. I know everyone says it, but a tomato tastes even better if it's home-grown"

 - The Virgin Gardener

By way of an introduction, the author tells of her early twenties and notions of “the Outside” at the time, as “what [she] ventured through on [her] way somewhere, usually to a party after dark.” With no particular interest in green spaces, it was only when her mother gave her a packet of seeds that Maklouf – “to alleviate the boredom of [her] office job”- planted them and became Forever After a changed woman. So changed in fact, that she quit her job the second her seedlings sprouted and enrolled on a horticultural course at the Chelsea Physics Garden in London, “instantly and irretrievably hooked on gardening.”

      However, while those around her had gardens of varying (and very literal) description, Maklouf had none, and set about researching what she would have to do in order to “create the garden [she] was learning about and dreaming of: cool, damp, ferny glades; walkways heaving with scented roses; luscious banks of white gladioli […] and hidden rockeries with fuzzy, moss-covered stones.” But it wasn’t long and the initial jargon and “sheer volume of information” had already “overwhelmed her.”

       Although my imagined ‘garden’ (if you’ll forgive this small misrepresentation) heaves with the scent of pots of flourishing thyme, I nonetheless shared in Maklouf’s dilemma. I had browsed through my grandmother’s gardening books and this was heavy-weight business. An officious-looking kit to test for alkaline/acidic soil so you would know to whether to buy ericaceous compost or lime… Come again? How to transform your garden into a hexagon…? Oh dear. And a great deal about all the awful things that can attack, eat, invade, and overcome your fresh attempt at a greener lifestyle.

So of course I was beyond delighted to turn the page with the heading, “How to grow plants,” and discover that Maklouf was swooning over-and-on-to the next point without any further hesitation. What had come to represent a special brand of alchemy for me was suddenly (and somewhat brazenly it seemed at first) reduced to three basic principles:

1) Find out where your plant originates (I heart you, Google!), and use a little bit of your imagination

2) Find out the hardiness of the plant. (Again here, Maklouf recommends making ample use of that clever and instinctive imagination.)

3) And I’m not even going to bother paraphrasing on this one: “Supply the plant with the following:

    Water Light Nutrients”

“In fact,” she confides, “even if you don’t do 1 and 2, just do this, and your plant will grow.”

    The perfect wedding gift, and an afternoon dalliance, respectively...

And when the book does occasionally get a little on the technical side, our gardening guide is never anything if not unfailingly encouraging, reminding the reader that “plants want to grow, and [perhaps in spite of us] most of them will find a way.” “They do not have inhibitions or whimsical insecurities. They are not callous or contrary. Unlike us, they do not suffer from bad hair days or sulkiness. All they care about is survival and sex.” So while I personally like to suspect my baby basils of being absurdly comforted to see me when I come to say ‘hello’, such bouts of flagrant myth-dispelling nevertheless thrill me!

      Thrill-seeking aside though, and most rewarding in the end, is that The Virgin Gardener has become a read I want to return to time and time again.

On a practical level, the book achieves its objective of “essentially a plant ‘cookbook’ of easy and accessible projects for virgin gardeners.” On an affective level though, it is not only that her tips and suggestions are “easy, inexpensive and perfect for virgins: the sort of ideas that would have seduced [a prior Maklouf herself] into an afternoon with plants.”

Hanging jam jars...

(apparently it helps if you are addicted to raspberry jam!)

They seduce because, after what has really felt like countless afternoons spent with its author, I will never think of a sweetly charming violet or sexy gooseberry the same. And when my latest addition – a beautiful, young lime tree –hopefully grows to be strong and fruitful one day and produces her first limes, I will honour the original virgin gardener and “always drink [my] gin and tonic sitting next to the tree that gave [me] that lovely slice.”

Plainly, The Virgin Gardener by Laetitia Maklouf is a joy in itself, and one that has only made possible for me one small and precious joy after the other. Like The Secret Garden has continued to do after countless and age-irrelevant reads, Maklouf has woven an utterly enchanting spell and - if you read between the lines – declared hers an unequivocally and decadently Good Book.

A Portrait of Mr Pug in Maklouf's Metaphorical Garden

The Delicious Miss Dahl and her Voluptuous Delights

This kitchen is a gentle relaxed one, where a punishing, guilt-inducing attitude towards food will not be tolerated. In this kitchen, we appreciate the restorative powers of chocolate. The kitchen would have a fireplace, and possibly a few dogs from Battersea Dogs' Home curled up next to it. There might be a small upright piano by the window, with an orchid that doesn't wither as soon as I look at it. On long summer days, the doors to this kitchen are thrown open, while a few lazy, non-stinging bees mosey by. Children stir. When it rains, there is room in this kitchen for reading and a spoon finding its way into the cake mix. Serious cups of tea are drunk here; idle gossip occurs, balance and humour prevail. It's the kitchen of my grandparents', but with some Bowie thrown in. It is lingering breakfasts , it is friends with babies on their knees, it is goodbye on a Sunday with the promise of more. This kitchen is where life occurs; jumbled, messy and delicious.
    It is lovely.
- Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights

And as far as introductions go, this one to Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights by the model-come-foodie (not to mention granddaughter of treasured author, Roald Dahl), Sophie Dahl, couldn't be more apt, an introduction to "this kitchen" that is entirely, yes, lovely.

The Delightful and Lovely Dahl

I remember my first encounter with the British use of the word 'lovely' in the year spent there after high school; it is as familiar and at home on the English tongue as the word 'lekker' is in the South African vernacular. And few words encapsulate the particular brand of English charm quite so succinctly. And it is this particular brand of charm that Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights simply oozes on every page like sticky yumminess straight out of a Lyon's Golden Syrup tin.

"Simplicity Personified and Norway in a Bowl": Miss Dahl's Beetroot Soup

With a cover of Miss Sophie Dahl sitting pretty, in a pair of garden-green Wellies and a woolly overcoat, on the steps of an enchanting Gypsy caravan, the proof here is in the pudding. Charming, delightful and lovely, this book is a return to the child-like, intrinsic and instinctive joys of eating, cooking and sharing. The author herself admits the difficulty in "translating" these recipes, as having "learnt the rudiments of [cooking] from [her] mum," an "instinctive cook" who "rarely cooks from recipes." However, this proves as a plus more than a minus in my opinion, with the result of Real Food, in the same vein as Nigella Lawson's  How To Eat.

 It was How To Eat that first introduced me to that Italian classic, Spaghetti Carbonara, a dish I have returned to time after time, a balm to soothe away a chaotic day, or as lazy weekender meal for two. Similarly, the "voluptuous delights" to be found on these pages, promise future 'Old Favourites' for a food-lover's arsenal. With a less-is-more attitude to the kitchen, these recipes remind us that sometimes simplest is, indeed, best.


Throughout, and as  a general rule, the recipes in this book will not have you mentally counting future pennies, or imagining an entire Sunday spent raiding the butcher's, the baker's and the Woolworth's Obscure Food Items aisle. Instead, Dahl's food is effortless, reminding the reader of why they first loved cooking (and of course, eating!) to begin with...

As Dahl's domestic-goddess peer, Nigella, has sagely pointed out, "restaurant food and home food are not the same thing," home food being more about a "sense of assurance in the kitchen, about the simple desire to make yourself something to eat," and "to please yourself to please others."
So, sure, this kind of food is not going to earn Miss Dahl a Michelin Star. But it is the kind of food she likes to come home to, the kind of food she likes to cook for her loved ones, and it is this that makes the book and its recipes such a treat.

Furthermore, the seasonal approach to the book, (aided along the way by the author's anecdotal memories), is testament to the fact that no is dish not evocative, whether it be of a place, a time, a person, or, purely, a certain rapture. (See here, Dahl's Winter lunch of "Pasta puttanesca," where she muses, "Whore's pasta - was ever a name so good? It's perfect for it: edgy, spicy and just the right side of wrong, conjuring up Neapolitan streets and dangerous women in tight dresses.")

Freshly Picked: Sea Bass with Black Olive Salsa and Baby Courgettes/Zucchini 

("a good dinner date" best served "in the garden, surrounded by twinkling candles")

In the opening Autumn breakfasts, Dahl's "Musician's breakfast (home-made bread with Parma ham)" is a breakfast intended for her "beloved [who] is a musician" (and, namely, famed hubby and jazz sensation, Jamie Cullum). "This, a strong cup of tea and Mile Davis on the stereo makes him a happy fellow in the morning," she tells the reader, inviting an open intimacy.
Again, as readers we are reminded that this is a kitchen not just for food, but full with the experience of it... With all the bells-and-whistles, and the sensory/memory ingredients that make kitchens the place for a happy mix.
(And I have to add that I would similarly seldom object to a little Miles Davis in my kitchen.)

It is this second thing that endears Miss Dahl's Voluptuous Delights to me...that it is feels so very close to home, full of a natural, conversational candour.  

In the Autumn breakfast of "Omelette with caramelized red onion and Red Leicester," Dahl shamelessly admits that she "[cries] like a baby" when chopping onions, or rather, that is, until she discovered a "brilliant device from Williams and Sonoma online."
And although I am quite partial to a good ol' cathartic sob over the chopping block, I have to appreciate the cheeky honesty with which the cook likewise confesses of her "Prawn/shrimp, avocado, grapefruit, watercress and pecan salad," that it is "perfect for a lunch where the impression of effort is required, but where the actual time spent is minimal."

This is a woman a reader can relate to, a woman who "loathe[s] going to the gym" and complains "like Eeyore" to her trainer during the entire process, but loves its effect. This is a woman who was incredulous to the "unforgiving body capital" of Los Angeles, and thanked her lucky stars that, not being an actress, she was exempted from the "size 2 jeans" and "steamed eggwhites" that proliferated in stores and eateries respectively. This is a woman who openly asks of her readers on the last pages, that they feel free to send her a postcard, but adds, "Just please don't ask me, 'How do I get a six-pack?' Because I will respond as I do now, by saying, 'My darling, I have absolutely no clue, nor the inclination to find out."
Her Winter breakfast of "Hangover Eggs" is for "when nothing but a fry-up will do" (resplendent with a "Coke, bad television and a lie down")... And her Autumn lunch of "Sea bass in tarragon and wild mushroom" meets its match in the neighbourhood cat, with its nasty habit of "peeing on every herb" in her garden "while giving [her] a distinctly bolshy look through the window."
A teasing, self-effacing charm and humour proves infectious, and it was this 'Everywoman' quality to Sophie Dahl, her food, and her stories, that first appealed t me as a woman invited to her table. A table where I would gladly divulge in woes and whys and glees alike, preferably over an after-dinner glass of ruby red.

And like the woman, Dahl's aforementioned seasonal approach encourages an ease and at-homeness.

The Summer supper of "Linguine with tomatoes, lemon, chilli and crab" may be "stolen, stolen, stolen," gracing as it does "menus all over the place." But I have to agree with her in that nothing "epitomize[s] summer in every bite" quite like this dish, making me long for languid Saturday afternoons spent outdoors in the shade with fine friends and a bottle of Raats Original Chenin Blanc. Similarly, the thought  of brisk Autumn-morning air is deliciously complimented by a breakfast of "Indian sweet potato pancakes" (speaking to my mutual infatuation with Indian food and breakfasts).

And feeling the Winter chill finally begin to seep in, with this, the first day in many my fair little city of Port Elizabeth has experienced a hearty rain, I look forward to a Dahlian breakfast of "Pear and ginger muffins," followed by her "Warm winter vegetable salad" of "rich colours and earthy tastes bring[ing] to the table a vibrant reminder of what lies beneath us."

"When the ground is covered by frost, and the days are half eaten by darkness":

A Warm Vegetable Salad

Moreover, the book speaks to own gratitude of good food and loved ones.

The celebration of friends and family is a festivity best practiced (and most articulately, I feel) in the act of cooking and eating together.

Because of this, you will meet throughout this book such memorable (and again intimate and likely!) characters as the grandmother, Gee Gee, who first taught Dahl how to cook Good Food, Plain and Simple, a woman of "organic" tastes "before it was fashionable"; her "mum," Tess - "called Teddy since she was little" - who besides being able to "cook (or rescue) any dish" also has the ability to rescue animalas with "the same alacrity and currently has five dogs, five cats and two canaries, named after her ex-husbands"; the "dad," Julian Holloway, "lovingly known as Hollers" who, besides being able to make a mean Thai chicken curry, is also "quite partial" to Diane Lane; and let's not forget her literary and equally cheeky grandfather, Roald, as the author tells of the "midnight feast" she had in his gypsy caravan with her best friend at thirteen, the two "hysterically laughing" (as tends to happen at sleep-overs) into the early hours of the morning. 

The children's author passing away that very November,  his granddaughter remembers that morning's breakfast with great fondness as he took one look at her "squashed, cranky face" and, roaring with laughter, served up the quintessential English staple beloved of man and bear alike: toast and marmalade.

"I discovered the joy inherent in cooking for people I loved.

It is one of the purest pleasures around, and like reading and bicycle riding,

it is one of those things that once you know how to do, you don't forget."

Without a doubt, Dahl is the sort of cook who practises the heart she preaches.

Though she occasionally indulges her brother, Luke, in a "Crusted rack of Lamb," the author puts the "awe-inspiring wealth of choice" she discovered while researching the book, to very good use. A self-confessed "semi-vegetarian after twenty years" (the "hangover," she suspects, of a "hippy childhood"), she eats only fish herself. And while "happy to cook organic free-range chicken, beef or lamb" as long as she knows its source, Dahl "draw[s] the line" at veal and foie gras and what she feels is unnecessary "abject cruelty."

Whether or not these are opinions the reader supports, I feel, is besides the question. For one, I applaud her emphasis on a "wealth of choice" that is often forgotten in the busy day-to-day fray of life. Secondly, her book is again entirely relevant for those of us who may eat meat ourselves, but have some wonderful people in our lives who have chosen otherwise. Here, I welcome the accommodating approach of recipes like the Autumn lunch of "Chicken and halloumi kebabs with chanterelles," where the meat can be easily substituted with vegetables - "the first thing that springs to mind would be an aubergine/eggplant." Her recipes are equally accommodating in range, as for those who eat fish, "Squid with chargrilled peppers and coriander/cilantro dressing" gets the lips smacking, while for the vegetarians she offers up a breakfast of "Scrambled tofu with cumin and shiitake mushrooms/pesto and spinach," and the satisfying supper of "Brown rice risotto with pumpkin, mascarpone, sage and almonds," to name a few.

Ultimately, Miss Dahl's Voluptuouss Delights is a pleasure of a book for seasoned foodies as well as newcomers (providing useful hints that many might take for granted, such as that fresh mussels, slightly open, should close upon a gentle tapping of the shell or be promptly discarded). And its eclectic blend of old-age wisdoms with new-age twists imagines a refreshing avenue for cooking, one that is wholesome and heart-felt and can only mean Good Food in the most unadulterated sense. Like most people who love food, I concur that there is "something deeply joyless in a life consisting of restriction." Truly, there is nothing "sexy" about "self-inflicted misery."

Instead I look forward to those incomparable moments, of "ice-cold beer from the bottle ... as boats sail in," of a "cake slowly baked" while "Nina Simone [sings] huskily on the stereo", of "goat's cheese and frittata" and "epic" margaritas, and the things that are "rare and precious in all that is higgledy-piggeldy and crooked," and embrace that "to everything there is a season."

The author riding a bicycle...

Coming soon...

Hello! As a foodie lover of all things social and edible, I look forward to celebrating the world of food and writing with you in due time:)