Under Covers

During those teenage years, my primary occupation was the calculated avoidance of school. I was no slacker; I did not directly rebel and refuse institutional education. Rather I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy devising ways to retain the appearance of going to school while actually passing my time with more important engagements. Thus I somehow goaded my parents into “homeschooling” for a couple years. Then, when we reached a level of mutual dissatisfaction with this arrangement, I stumbled upon a life saver. It is called Running Start and ostensibly provides a way for ambitious high school students to take classes at local community colleges, fulfilling school requirements while earning college credits at the same time.  In my case however, it wasn’t so much a thirst for higher education that provided motivation as the lack of classroom time these courses entailed. College classes are designed to stimulate more independent study, and therefore have a corresponding scantiness of lecture hours.  Combine this fact with the lenient attendance policy of the college, and the fact that commuting to class required that I take a ferry off the island each day, and found myself with more freedom that a 17 year old knows what to do with.

Instead of using my new found liberty in a sensible teenage way, to sit by the river chain smoking cigarettes or visit an exciting and inappropriate boyfriend, I made a beeline for the bookshop. In the turbulence of adolescence, it was a comforting, almost numbing space. Walking through the doors I could forget all existential wrestlings and immerse myself in unfamiliar worlds, all at my fingertips. The sections that drew me were indicative of a desire for escape and catharsis: travel, languages, mystery, self help and mythology. I would wonder the shelves collecting volumes here and there.  Then I would establish myself in a corner of the bookshop cafe, order a coffee and some extravagantly sticky pastry and spend a luxurious morning buried in other peoples words. Rarely did I actually purchase a book—that wasn’t necessary except on occasions of debilitating angst. Instead, once I’d had my fill of Lonely Planet’s guide to Argentina, Bill Bryson’s uproarious travels or Celtic Myths and Legends, I’d reluctantly return the books to their shelves and walk back out into the world, temporarily revived.

There was one section however that warranted a visit no matter my state of mind; restless wanderlust or violent psychic battle, I’d never leave without pausing in the cookbook section. And it was this area that proved most dangerous to my wallet; as pleasant as it is to browse a cookbook, your really need to own the thing and christen it with sticky fingerprints before it truly serves a purpose.  So I’d frequently cave under the temptations of souffles, pates and pastries, and find myself back out in the fresh air, fifteen dollars poorer, slightly dazed and clutching a copy of Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking, or Pasta Classica: The Art of Italian Pasta Cooking.

These days I have outgrown the habit of shirking responsibilities in favor of lingering in bookshops, but I still luxuriate in any excuse to duck into one of these wonderful establishments on a rainy afternoon and lose myself among the pages. And I still have a profound weakness for culinary tombs. So when I stumbled upon Books for Cooks while cycling round Nottinghill, I couldn’t resist.  I should have known that it was a dangerous move.

The store is diminutive yet absolutely crammed with culinary literature, from Jamie Oliver’s latest bestseller to obscure volumes on foraging and the classic prose of M.F.K. Fisher, this shop is a foodie’s dream. Walking through the door I felt like a dog let loose in a field of rabbits, crazed with choice, not knowing where to bury my nose first. But I had to be firm. My current mission is pickling, so I limited myself to the section on preserving fruits and vegetables, and spent a deliciously tortured half hour trying to decide which book to buy.  Preserves: River Cottage Handbook No. 2 was tempting, but I eventually opted for The Art of Preserving by Rick Field and Rebecca Courchesne as it seemed to have greater breath and more creative flavor combinations.

Now, with the book at home, I have the equally agonizing task of deciding which recipe to try first: pickled okra flecked with garlic and chili looks stunning but of course its not the season; pickled pearl onions or garlic are good standbys. Yet, as the days draw in and the rain becomes more determined, I am gravitating towards the fire of jalapeños sweetened with honey or the zap of red onions spiked with habaneros, lime, and herbs. For the moment I am content just to pour over the pictures and recipes, conjuring up flavors in my mind and tucking ideas away like bottles of pickled beets for future use.

Maybe not so far in the future . . . thumbing through these recipes I am working up an irresistible craving for Mexican flavors. Since London is sadly lacking in good, cheap Mexican eateries I might just have to take matters into my own hands tonight and whip up some pickled chilies, tomatillo or mango-lime salsa, fresh tortillas and make a little feast of my own!