We are all starved.
The other night, pumped up on the steroids I’d been prescribed after my coronavirus infection, I found myself reaching into the fridge at 5am for the rump steak I’d barbecued the day before. It was a chonky slab of meat, pink and tender, the fat around its edges crisp, salty and charred. I ate cold slices of it hungrily, in between coughing fits, then licked my greasy fingers and went back to bed. I stared into the night, waiting for the coming of dawn. What now?
We are all pacing in our cages, looking for something to nourish us. For some of us, it’s a forbidden patch of grass to lie on. The busy-ness of work. Sourdough starters, kept alive like pets with regular feedings. Banana bread fresh from the oven, with its heady scent of butter and sugar – a taste of safer, brighter childhood afternoons. A hand on a shoulder, a hug, the touch of skin on hot skin: the comfort of company. The joy of solitude.
In the worst throes of illness, when all I could manage was a slice of toast nibbled pathetically over a few hours, my mind drifted to what I would eat when I was well again. Curries. Char siu. Cakes. Food salty and sweet, soul-soothing, life-sustaining. In my fevered daydreams, I imagined this little thing you’re reading: a space to explore hunger, but also desire, drive and ambition – the signs that we are still, stubbornly, against all odds, alive.
Each edition will feature a few thoughts, a tried-and-tested recipe, and a chat with someone doing something interesting in and around the food industry. Bits and bobs to keep you hungry.
See you in a bit.