I have picked up a book and started reading it. In true form I have been distracted from my mission to write today; however, it is not unrelated. The book is called Will Write for Food by Dianne Jacob. I haven’t even got through the first 3 pages and I have started making notes.
Asking a simple question in the first few pages as to why I want to write a recipe book in the first few pages had me reaching for the kettle and a rather deep review of my motives. Well, there is the inevitable ego rush of “Gosh what a good cook am I.” Then there is the desire to pass on something to my children, not the book, but the approach to life. But the real reason is that I believe I have a unique expertise worth sharing. I am convinced.
Knowing my passion for food, I was asked recently, by a friend who owns a group of care homes, to help a boy, who, some time ago, was attacked and set on fire. He had shown remarkable resilience in his recovery and demonstrated some interest in food and cooking. She wanted this curiosity stimulated. So today I went to meet this young chap whose circumstances in life have failed him
My nerves have been up all week. I have been fretting about the inevitable feelings of over privilege and how much guilt I would experience for being fortunate. I needn’t have worried. These were the last things on my mind as I drove home.
We made cheese and caraway scones and an impromptu bacon pizza.
What is remarkable is the way in which food affects us. It stimulates comforts, nourishes and fulfils us, and I am not talking about the eating of food. I am talking about the making of food.
The pride on this lad’s face as he set out his culinary achievements was priceless. I can only imagine from the sounds of the kids gathering around the table that the eating of it was even better. As I left luscious wafts of baked cheese and oregano filled the house. My parting thoughts were not as I had feared; they were simply ...what a pity I can’t stay for lunch.