My library of food books spills off my shelves; there’s a French one in my car, which I read while waiting for my child’s ballet classes to end. An Australian tome of great beauty adorns my coffee table; a nice escape from tedious TV adverts. Sonia Cabano’s been my bedside companion for some weeks now; pre-sleep fodder for the sweetest dreams …
Yet, with this great bounty of culinary pornography, this plethora of divine inspiration, I am – once a week – presented with that deeply unsexy freezer staple: beef mince, a thing that does not make for poetry.
Meatloaf (both the singer and the dish) brings to mind a mullet hairstyle and I’ve done the California-glamour burger patty to death; spaghetti bolognaise and lasagna made repeat performances during the winter and must now be allowed to rest a while. Cabbage rolls have simply been banned and must never be mentioned in my home again for fear of frightful crossness from my family.
And so I confront the truth that into each life a little rain must fall; I pull myself together and fry an onion. In the end I find that savoury mince on plain old white rice is just the thing a little girl who is feeling very poorly wants.
Nursery food it is, and it really does have its place in the world.
“Plain fare gives as much pleasure as a costly diet, while bread and water confer the highest possible pleasure when they are brought to hungry lips.”
Epicurus (341?-270 BC)