I really hate cooking. There is not much more to say about this photo except that I just hate cooking. My mum and her mum, and her mum ( etc. ) were extraordinaires. They could make anything, out of anything, anywhere and at any time. I just helped. And I did this as quickly as possible because I just wanted to get back to my reading. But because I read so much, I was always hungry and so took every opportunity to eat quickly with the book open nearby, breathing its narrative over the top of the oven and in this picture there would have been a book nearby, open and waiting; looking at the age of myself here I think it might have been Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat.
Right now, today, it is the beginning of summer and hot. Outside, the evening is still warm and spiked through with galahs and dust and neighbours, and I am letting a good pork roast burn to death because I have just started reading In Search of Lost Time, and I cannot leave it, the best parts are about food and cooking and how important these are. So that pork roast can just go to hell.