The Everyday Made Sacred by Intent

A while back, Stephen Grasso commented to me that he appreciated reading the entries on my blog about cooking, how the tales of finding ingredients and preparing them were actually small love stories. Perceptive. Whether baking bread or pulling everything together for a risotto, my cooking is often one of those commonplace expressions of love that can easily be overlooked. A bit of the everyday made sacred by intent. Sometimes you want to tell those who command space in your heart and mind your love them with words, other times by plucking basil leaves from the pot in the kitchen and adding them to the tomato sauce you have been reducing down for the last hour.

Another higher function cooking serves for me is as creating a meditative space within my life. When I am being slammed hard by a storm of deadlines and worrying about trying to fit in making a speech at a literary convention, a child’s birthday party and a visit to Nanna all on the safe day, cooking grounds and centres me. The urgent tang that comes from sweating onions and garlic cuts through the roaring static of my stress. Building the flavours of a sauce becomes alchemy. Combining ingredients I transform base elements into a temporary panacea for my ills.

The moment in the day when I take down the wooden board, pour olive oil into the pan and begin chopping while Radio 4 throws out voices is always special. Cooking is not just a chore, not just a pleasure. For me it can be as essential as sleep for gathering up the cares of the day and making a feast out of life.

La Vie En Rose

A few weeks back I saw La Vie En Rose, a fractured and bruised telling of the life Édith Piaf. Its saving graces were Marion Cotillard, the fact much of it was shot to look like an Edward Hopper painting and the gloriously restored versions of Piaf’s songs. Today, after only limited buggering around by the postal services, the original soundtrack was delivered. Despite its lack of Cassandre Berger’s version of La Marseillaise that brought me close to tears when I first heard it, I am mightily pleased by its arrival.

Some music is meant to make love to, some to cook to. When it comes to Sunday roasts Frank Sinatra is king. On a Monday evening when the cold rain is a relentless, brutal tattoo on the canal, Piaf is untouchable. Drama, passion, humour and a robust sauciness. Against a soundtrack containing all of those ingredients, it is would be impossible to not summon up a decent meal.

Nigella Lawson ... Stepford Wife

Nigella Lawson is scary. Watching her in Nigella Express as she tries to project an aura of intense sexuality in her faux kitchen is liked being flirted with by a Stepford wife. The end result of attempted seduction is not only unsexy, but also unsettling. Every time the camera pulls back from a close-up of her lip licking, I expect to see the body of some poor, eviscerated sap impaled on the wall by one of her carving knives. When she flutters her eyes you cannot help but fear she is all set to go into killer gynoid mode.

Despite this, I have to admit some of her recipes rock. Nigella’s ‘No Worries’ chocolate mousse is genius as is the idea of adding bourbon to her caramel croissant pudding. Tonight Surreal Girl tested out her pea and pesto soup. It was a grand success. If I did not have a couple of cookbooks to keep me busy – including the rather fabulous Madhur Jaffrey's Ultimate Curry Bible – Nigella latest offering might actually tempt me.