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...