My name is Isabel Inkster and I have a problem. And this problem is taking over my life, my bank account, and damaging relationships. I am addicted to cookbooks. New ones, old ones, fat ones, skinny ones, all sexy and sleek and prettily printed and beautifully bound. I spend far too many hours stalking the cookbook section of various bookstores. It takes time to find what I, specifically, above all, covet. You see it is a wee bit difficult to find a vegetarian cookbook that's not a 'vegetarian cookbook'...if you know what I mean. I have more than enough variations on 'substantial salads' and a squillion types of 'satisfying soups'!
This particular morning, looking offensively scruffy in a rather stuffy Claremont bookstore, I was eventually aided by one poor staff member (who probably drew the short straw to serve ‘that dykish teen without sufficient funds to actually make a purchase’). At the end of turning inside out a number of tomes, I went with the recommended ‘Plenty’ by Yotam Ottolenghi.
I scurried home with this adulterously expensive little piece and hid between the covers. Oh sweet centre folds of freekeh pilaf! Oh sealed section on the hidden delights of the aubergine! Since this scandalous purchase, I have concocted a plethora of tasty pickings from within. Thus far I've only got a sneaky snap of the green cous-cous. But by golly, there will be more. If a whole week of new meals, an engorged belly, and perhaps a daunting grocery bill are the worst side effects of this addiction...I really don’t think I’ll quit.
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