A friend from Brooklyn sent me this cookbook, and I LOVE it! I love the pictures, I love that the recipes call for heaping teaspoons of things, I love that kids can cook and learn from it and I can, too. The only problem is it makes me want to live in a rambling country house through which animals walk and outside of which I'd have a kitchen garden. My hands would be red and my nails ragged, my cheeks ruddy, my hair frizzy, and my Christmas dinner would be all about brussel sprout gratin and Yorkshire pudding. It doesn't mater that I don't celebrate Christmas, I'd know what to do with suet! That's what I love about a good cookbook. It creates a world that's completely unto itself, with its own rules and obligations and wherein it's perfectly reasonable for a child to gut a fish.
Can't you see it? There's Trevor with the fish knife and I'm in the kitchen shaping my bread dough into a loaf for its second rising. Georgie, Trevor's sister, is feeding the rabbits, the baby is napping and my husband is off somewhere doing husbandly things while the sheets dry in the good strong spring breeze.
Now, I'm off to clean up the play dough and pack the bags of Puffins for snack. The apples are peeled, the strawberries sliced and there's nothing left to do but wait for the TV show to end, dress the children and slather them in sunscreen. Is there a cookbook in this life?