“If I had an onion, a clove of garlic and a tin of tomatoes, I could make a good dinner just by relying on my spices. That’s it, that’s a meal!” says Harvindar on the necessity of a well-stocked store cupboard. She shares her recipe for a cabbage coconut thoran and herby Punjabi chutney.
While the challenges of Covid and those of the world wars are fundamentally very different, there are parallels we can draw between them. Wartime cookbooks can teach us so much about the thrift we’re re-learning now.
This costs about two quid to make, says Mary over the noise of her food processor, pulverising day old bread into crumbs. My husband and I spend no more than £30 on our weekly shop. Maybe it’s the mathematician in me but I am a great weigher of things, I don’t waste a thing.
I interview 80-year-old Dee from south Wales who likes her pwdin reis with black skin on it. Rice pudding was once eaten for Sunday dinner all over Wales, slow-cooked overnight to make use of a hot oven after baking bread.
My first efforts at cooking were to open a tin of soup and a tin of baked beans and combine them. I called it STEWP. Chrys is laughing her head off, listing her first forays into cooking in early 1970’s Southport, northern England.
They’ll throw the fish heads in the bin if I don’t buy them. I stick them in the freezer to use in soups. They’re full of flavour, says Nolda. Read on for Nolda’s very frugal fish soup with Jamaican dumplings.
“But in the homes, not only of the Turks but also of the Serbs, nothing was changed. They lived, worked and amused themselves in the old way. Bread was still mixed in kneading troughs, coffee roasted on the hearth, clothes steamed in coppers and washed with soda which hurt the women’s fingers.” – Ivo Andric, The
We’d been driving for at least an hour in a bulletproof 4×4 heading south of Yerevan. Our driver, a surly man who proffered persimmons and sweets, was heading home to Armenia’s contested and highly militarised Karabach region in the south. Our village stop was on his way. An Orthodox cross swung on a string of
“Eternal Albania, bearing its tragic destiny with dignity, as he had come to know it not only from its epic poetry but also from the inn up there” – The File on H, Ismail Kadare It’s not the church bells that ring in the beginning of a new day, but the familiar methodical toll of
I’m fussing, as my kids would tell you I do best. Slightly worried about having the food photographs, I am a home cook!? Judy writes. We’ve spoken on the phone and exchanged a few emails and I’m due to visit her at her home in south Wales with Maria Bell, a photographer friend of mine.
It’s the sweet, mellow smell of heating milk that hits you first. That and the warmth of a just stoked fire, bringing sharp relief from the chill in the rest of the house and a sign that the day has begun. It takes a second to locate the source of such welcome comforts until you