This is a bit like watching my daughter take her first wobbly steps. Quite sure of her need to walk, not quite sure of much else. I’m the wobbly blogger. And though I’ve written for a living, writing the personal is infinitely more challenging than writing for a paycheck.
So, here’s me, raising my glass of Tempranillo to all ye brave bloggers. I just got here.
Suddenly, and quite strongly, I felt the need to record. Record the recipes I’ve created, and forgotten. The wonderful little kitchens we’ve discovered in little lost villages. Delicious farmers’ markets with houmous that makes you happy. And my life with D and our daughter, better than anything I could ever cook up.
Amidst all the ‘fooding’ – talking about food, writing about food, scouring for food or slaving for food – I would like this to be a record of things that will make me smile, many years on.
My two-year old is already two years old! And I can hardly remember her as the tiny blob she must have been. I will need the help of my ramblings to give me back this funny little girl, when she’s a teenager driving me up the walls.
I love peppercorns. I like them pink, and crushed in dark chocolate. Green, and crusted on a halibut. Black, and coarsely milled over a golden, buttery toast. They travel with me, they sneak into my stews, they make things interesting. Like my peppercorns, I want this blog to be sprinkled with all the things I find interesting.
My family and friends, of course, will be bound by contract, to read my rants. But if there’s anybody else out there, unbelievably, reading what I write, please leave me a line. It’ll be nice to know that I’m not talking to myself. Again.