Somewhere, packed away in a cupboard, I have a box of letters and diaries from my child- and early adult- hood. Every time I move house they come with me. They contain things that are too painful to look at: acute reminders of the person I was, letters, mixed tapes and drawings from someone I loved who is now dead, mementos of joyful times I hardly remember. I only look at them sometimes, but will never discard them. I have a cookbook like this too, black bound A4 with a red – bound spine. I started this cookbook nearly 20 years ago now when I began recording and developing recipes. The pages are falling out and it’s full of yellowing sticky tape. It’s a fragile artefact and every time I flick through it I am excavating my own past. Continue reading
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