Love Letter, Of A Different Sort

Dear Husband,

I hate to do this in a blog post, but we’re modern people, and I thought you should know: 

I have found my soul mate. 

Culinary, that is.

His name is Nigel.

I love him despite this.

He cooks. 

He eats.

He writes.  

I have been reading his diary, and let me tell you:

The man can put a sentence together.

He’s English and bangs on about crazy things like trifles, mullet, and blood pudding, but it doesn’t matter. 

We are of one mind. 

Listen:

“When I say butter, I mean unsalted.  When I say sugar, I mean the unrefined golden stuff from Mauritius.  Pepper is ground from a mill as I need it and not, absolutely not, ever bought ready ground.  Oh, and when I refer to a grill pan, I mean one of those heavy ridged cast-iron grill pans that sits on the hob.  You can now get them quite easily from cookware shops and department stores.”

Okay, so I've never bought sugar from Mauritius.  

I didn't even know sugar could come from Mauritius.

It doesn't matter.  

Sugar pretensions aside, his food is uncomplicated, but inspiring; simple, but not mundane.

Seasonal, honest, and real.

He had me at hello.

I hope you understand and can put jealously aside to enjoy his food. 

We’ll be eating lots of it, starting with this:

Nigel understands that bacon makes everything better.

What more can I say?

Love, 

Kate

p.s. My heart is still yours, even if my stomach belongs to him.  I think you know who has the firmer end of the deal.    

images from www.nigelslater.com