I have a habit of buying cookbooks. Not the sort that have well-modelled pictures above straight-forward recipes but more like those with rambling stories, recipes and then well-modelled photos on glossy pages. Going through these books is like reading fairy tales. They always have a happy ending but kind of somehow leave you high and dry after that, unless of course, you decide to preheat that dormant oven and follow a recipe confidently. If it turns out well, it's good, otherwise you'd have the satisfaction of having tried it at the very least. Sometimes, these cookbooks even read like chick-lits. ( My all-time favourite chick lit, although some may argue that it's just really a bloke-lit, is Date Expectations, written by a man, Paul Reizin.) By now I own quite a few of em, cookbooks, and I'm not ashamed to admit that it had initially kicked off with Nigella Lawson's How To Be A Domestic Goddess! Mich and I used to look through this book (and other L...
a blog about small things with big value