Growing up, I was taught by adult example that food was either a peril to be avoided or, at best, treated as a necessary evil and consumed as one would consume spakfiller. At most meals you ate what was on your plate because you were told to, or because you were too hungry to give it to the dog. Consequently I never took much interest in the culinary arts, viewing cookbooks as a Puritan might view the grimoires of black magic. For the last fifteen years or so, my concept of food heaven has rotated around the celestial pole of the perfect tomato sandwich - and I must say, a good bread roll with good tomatoes is still hard to beat, in my book. However, something has been slowly happening over the last year. Living in Thailand, where good food is everywhere, then travelling in Europe and sampling cuisines (when my parents took me in 1981 we mostly ate dehydrated ravioli cooked on a portable stove to save money), has appeared to have planted seeds of curiosity about comestibles in my heretofore uncaring mind. France certainly watered those seeds. In St Malo, the fig-raisin rum hot chocolate got me thinking about the alchemies of taste; exposure to scallops cooked in various sauces (until now, I’d only ever eaten them deep fried from the fish and chip shop or overcooked in cheap Chinese takeaway), and my modest adventure in Paul and Joelle’s kitchen, worked a spell of seduction. Back in Bangkok, I found myself trawling supermarket aisles as I’d never done, looking at food with new eyes. And lo, I bought frozen scallops; and according to the way set down by Paul, I thawed them in milk; then I lightly salted them and seared them a minute on each side; and I prepared a sauce out of onions, garlic and wine. At the end, on a whim, I added chopped macadamias. And behold, it wasn’t half bad. I cooked all by myself, mama!

Truly, this is the first time I’ve cooked in any way that might be considered proper cooking. I’ve operated a toaster oven with some success, I’ve boiled/steamed spaghetti and rice and added things to them, I’ve cracked eggs in a pan and made omelette-like objects, but this was the first time that I had bought something with the express intention of cooking it, and the first time I’d treated the act of cooking with interest and respect, as opposed to viewing it as an annoying stage between hunger and satiety, to be traversed speedily and without looking to left or right. It feels…good?
Boldened by success, I made a dessert out of fresh figs, gin and chocolate. It really needed to be drizzled over ice cream or at least cut with baking soda and Vim, but I proudly ate it anyway, though it gave me a headache (I blame the figs).