I never had mac’n’cheese as a kid. I was offered it once at a friend’s house- pallid and gloopy-white- and immediately remembered that my mum wanted me home for my […]
My grandparents are dying and the world is teetering on the brink of what Twitter keeps calling World War Three and the anxiety is back, kicking and screaming WE TOLD […]
This crumble is either distressing because the idea of nectarines in a crumble is inherently wrong; or because it was written in a hospital waiting room. Really, though, like hospitals, nectarines in crumble are brilliant. This crumble has nectarines, and walnuts, and whiskey, and marzipan, and it may be the best thing I’ve ever invented.
She hears there’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart, spurns enviously at straws, speaks things in doubt that carry but half sense. This, then, is a pie of half-sense, and of remembering. Bake it, and remember. I was all out of pansies, and I haven’t seen a columbine in years, and cooking with rue seemed foolish: but the other things are there, and they are very good.
A stock for the almost very worst days, the days when leaving the house is too hard, when everything seems impossible. This is a stock, or a soup, and it is good, and warm. This is a stock for the worst days; it is a good stock.