15 Nov 2023
This week’s issue of our fair Times presents something of a milestone for me: it’s column number 20. What a pleasingly round number.
When I realised that I’ve preyed upon your patience, dear reader, some 19 times now, I was surprised that I’ve had so much to say. Then I remembered just how loquacious (at best) and opinionated (at worst) I am. Putting my thoughts down in writing every fortnight was never going to be a challenge. The hard work rests with those invited to read, so thank you very much to those of you who do. It’s one of the most humbling things I’ve experienced.
When the noble editor of these pages asked if I would come on board as a food writer, I was torn between febrile excitement and agonising impostor syndrome.
What qualifies me to author this column? I’m neither trained as a journalist nor draped in culinary accolades. In fact, the only thing I can attest to is having hungrily devoured other food writers’ tomes and many, many recipe books, my favourites of which sit proudly on the shelf most likely to be noticed by visitors, I’m apparently not too ashamed to admit.
Their other crowning glory is that they’ve withstood the decluttering juggernaut that is my husband, who beseeched me to pass on the books whose pages last saw daylight decades ago.
Despite my lack of ostensible accreditation in the field of food writing, when I was doing my A levels, I did intend to be a journalist and went as far as to secure two weeks’ work experience at BBC Pebble Mill in Birmingham, where we lived at the time.
Along with a degree in literature, and a decent stint working as a copywriter, proof-reader and editor before having children, I hoped this would equip me with enough courage to string some coherent sentences together.
Inspiration is always plentiful. I adore the weekly musings of Grace Dent, restaurant critic and podcaster, who manages to be both unpredictable and no-nonsense at the same time. Everything she writes is laced with just enough sardonicism to lend her clout and comedy value.
Bee Kitchen is another favourite food writer of mine, with a frank and imaginative take on all things edible.
There’s something for any mood you might be in, too: articles with titles as fun and frivolous as “The Salty, Soothing Twist of Pretzels” juxtapose more weighty and sobering topics like eating disorders and how Bee “cooked [her] way through the shock of [her] husband walking out…”.
Even Nigella has a place in my heart when it comes to my combined love of food and words. She’s almost painfully “cringe”, as my children would put it, in her worship of food (anyone remember the pig massage she gave, or those noises of appreciation she’s so famous for?), but at the same time, she describes food with such evocative turns of phrase that we’ll forgive her the more abstruse forays, and just delight in the gastronomic hedonism her words incite: talking of a gorgonzola and cannellini bean dip she says, “I like this dip to have real tang: I need to feel that burning, blue-cheese buzz.” If I could add the wide-eyed emoji here, I would.
On the cookery side of things, so many chefs have inspired me that there just aren’t enough pages in this publication to cover them all. Probably my earliest love was Jamie Oliver, who at the time had a refreshingly haphazard way of throwing tasty ingredients together, narrated just as casually with words like “pukka” and “well nice”.
I’ve since heard him in an interview on Radio 4 apologising deeply for sounding like such a plonker. But I liked it.
It was a recipe of Jamie’s that inspired my love of quiche, as retro as that sounds. A wobbly, eggy filling inside a rustic and buttery shortcrust case is honestly a thing of great joy, especially if it’s overflowed slightly and caused some crispy bits to form at the bottom edge of the pastry.
Those imperfections are what Jamie loved most – the ‘Marmitey’ bits at the bottom of the roasting tray or the ‘bummy-ends’ of a fresh loaf of bread. The fancy stuff isn’t always the best stuff.
Quite the diametric opposite of Jamie is Mary Berry, with her reputation for the precise and the impeccable.
Both ends of the scale are valid, because sometimes you want a quick-fix flavour-party, and sometimes you want finessed refinement.
Mary Berry’s Austrian chocolate cake inspires my most-ordered dessert (right) and provides the fudgiest, most satisfying chocolate-hit imaginable, perfect for those testing days when a pack of Maltesers just won’t quite do.
Finally (though as I said earlier, there can’t really be a ‘finally’ when it comes to who inspires me), I must mention Sabrina Gayour. Introduced to me by my friend and culinary consultant, Leisha, her recipe books are more like works of art.
The kaleidoscope of colour and heady, intense flavours her food offers are truly addictive.
One of the simplest of her recipes is a beetroot and yoghurt dip that punches you square in the eyes with its vibrant, fuchsia colour.
She turns dinner plates into canvasses with their chromatic splendour. Well, they say we eat with our eyes as much as our mouths and, coupled with the current rise in popularity of food art, or ‘fart’ as my husband unhelpfully termed it, we’re perhaps just a whisper away from a new movement. Bowel as well as artistic.
