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I am not an overly emotional individual. Nevertheless, I experience — alongside the inevitable apprehension, unseemly as it might be to confess such a thing — a comfortably comforting certainty regarding the appropriateness of events as I settle into my fresh appointment here.
Well before my career as a food writer began, or even having the slightest notion of such an unlikely outcome, my inaugural publication in the country’s press was for the FT. Back then, my day job was in publishing as an editorial aide, while I concurrently served as a book critic for any journal, scholarly addendum, or literary periodical willing to accept my contributions. The naive hopefulness and bold vigor of youth propelled me to excerpt my nascent critiques and dispatch them (accompanied, I must add in my own defense, by an apologetic accompanying note acknowledging their imperfections) to established, significant literary editors. Consequently, Anthony Curtis of the FT forwarded a book for my assessment. I cannot recall precisely the book’s title — a Latin American novel in the vein of magical realism, quite fashionable during that era — yet regrettably, I vividly remember categorizing it as “oneiric and labyrinthine”. That mortification will forever persist. A more discerning individual might have opted against disclosing this, but if we intend to share our time here each month, it’s preferable to withhold nothing.
I raise these points not merely to trace a trajectory in an effort to comprehend existence, but because, despite how momentous it feels for me to rediscover a base here, I recognize my presence is by happenstance, albeit a fortunate one. Becoming a food writer was not my intention. My initial book,How to Eat, was penned not due to a desire for a career shift (my anxious dependence on apprehension as an impelling factor rendered me quite suitable for a columnist’s and critic’s existence) but rather from a conviction that culinary practice had been monopolized by professional chefs, and that the domestic cooking we undertake, no matter how unskillfully, had been diminished, even debased. The culinary expert’s technical abilities, exacting standards, and exactitude are remarkable, and the dishes produced through them can unquestionably be superb, yet this offers no viable template for the amateur cook. My aim was to discuss home cooking candidly from the viewpoint of the untrained preparer of provisions and, subsequently, to delve into the lexicon of food, its significance to us, and, arguably most crucially, the rationale behind its importance.
Indeed, the culinary scene has transformed irrevocably since 1998, the year that volume was released. Theoretically, the internet has made food universally accessible, yet practically, it frequently morphs into ostentatious performance art—a course Ruby Tandoh chronicles with insight and humor inAll Consuming: Why We Eat the Way We Eat Now. I am the most voracious individual I am acquainted with, and even I perceive the incessant deluge of visuals and frantic renditions of food as excessively stimulating, almost to an extent that curtails appetite. Granted, I could safeguard myself by reducing my phone usage, but the online gastronomic domain possesses a captivating allure all its own. Nor am I justified in scoffing: I, too, am a participant. Food is simply too exquisite for us not to wish to illustrate it, capture it photographically, or videotape it. Nevertheless, a mere image can only skim the superficiality of food; it is discourse that enables us to perceive its full intricacy. Or, at minimum, this is the devout conviction of those among us who chronicle cuisine. This predicament captivated me from the outset: how could abstract communication effectively articulate this sensory domain or its emotional depth? Resolving that enigma sustains our collective endeavors, and specifically, it explains my contentment in being present here, where such inquiries retain their significance.
Despite all that, what I increasingly cherish is the pure tangible nature of preparing food. Here we are, our intellects buzzing and vibrant, our existences consumed by digital displays. Culinary activity serves as a means of affirming our presence as corporeal beings in the universe. When cooking, one must permit their intellect to transcend mental boundaries and inhabit the senses—touch, taste, and aroma. Moreover, cooking addresses more profound necessities. Just as I prepared to commence this article, the spouse of one of my longest-standing friends passed away. I have held affection for her since the age of 18, and for him since I was 30, and the sole method I felt appropriate to honor that bond was through culinary efforts. I prepared meatballs, baked a cake, and created rice pudding. Nothing elaborate, nothing innovative, simply sustenance to console the consumer and to soothe me, the preparer.
Thus, having elucidated, somewhat circuitously, my presence here, I believe I should conclude by offering you something to bring home as a recompense. To prepare a classic rice pudding, preheat the oven to 140C, grease a vessel with a volume of one liter or slightly more, introduce 600ml of whole milk and 150ml of rich cream, blend in 45g of superfine sugar and approximately a teaspoon of vanilla, followed by 90g of short-grain rice. Drizzle 45g of liquefied unsalted butter over the surface, sprinkle grated nutmeg on top, then bake for two to two and a half hours. Raisins are entirely unwelcome in any rice pudding I concoct (surely it’s common knowledge that a rice pudding should contain no ingredients requiring mastication?), but your culinary choices are entirely yours. Ultimately, that is the essence of preparing food.
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