I’m no cookbook writer (yet) and for the longest time I have tried to convince the world, myself included, this is because I don’t actually work with recipes, a rather rash precipitation of reality as I love to read them when exploring new ideas, to relax and to be entertained. Some years ago I would even regularly buy cooking magazines and spend hours reading, mostly to improve my French because cooking is a language I feel I was born with, which made absorbing new words a breeze.
More accurate would be to blame my habit of relying fully on the intrinsic value of my intuition while preparing our meals, a much appreciated stability but nevertheless very personal and not exactly sharable: how many times can one plausibly say ‘trust your gut’ when specific volumes and combinations are requested?
If you ended up here after following my muses on the life we chose to live, you’d be even more surprised at this reluctance as recipes on blogs tend to be obscenely long, first box ticked, and they all seem to mimic the preface to a personal memoir, ticked off again, up to the point where software developers invented the ‘jump to recipe’ button you’ll find here too, as if to say ‘skip the bs, just give us your goods’.
I have surely had my share of vexation myself, trying to connect to tried and true ways of dealing with reoccurring cooking chores without being drawn into some kind of celebratory glorification of traditions that seems to want to wipe out modern days’ delights, deferred sentencing because who am I to judge?
