The Cookery Book Aberration.
I've recently developed a deviant preference for reading cookery books instead of the recommended classics of English Literature. This is perhaps a consequence of spending too much time on my own under covid lockdown.
But why cookery? Is it a form of escape from the reality of current existence? Surely 14th century monks of the more penitent orders, did not crave for their epoch equivalents of Hells Kitchen or Nigeria Lawson seductively licking a spoon? Perhaps they did though.
Anyway, I've tried conforming by extracting from my bookshelves old favourites by Evelyn Waugh, Le Carre and Graham Greene and have been partially successful in keeping on the straight and narrow. But then I find myself gravitating to; the more alcohol induced contributions of Keith Floyd, matronly dishes by Delia, and the anarchic, yet stimulating ramblings of Jamie Oliver.
I even found myself engrossed the other day on a recipe of stuffed reindeer heart from Lapland. But my aspirations regards acquiring the main ingredient in England, quickly brought me to earth.
Dear Lit Netters, is there an antidote?