I've come to the realisation that my goal of attempting to cook something out of every cookbook I own is never going to happen. or signup to continue reading I had this whacky idea, that like, I would write about cooking my way through them all, Sandra Bullock would play me in the movie, and life would be hunky-dory. What a way to spend a few years, cooking, writing, becoming famous.
But I know it's never going to happen. So I've been wondering if I should clear out the collection. I've got cookbooks my mother gave me when I moved into my own place in 1987, others that aren't even on the shelves yet, due to the perks of this wonderful job.
But how many am I actually cooking from now? Not many. The internet has killed all sorts of joys, from talking to handsome strangers in real life, to perusing through the pages of beautiful cookbooks to decide what to cook for said handsome stranger when you invite him over for dinner. Now, rather than pick up a book, I'll google " and billions of dinner options will appear on my phone.
Practical, but where's the romance? I love nothing more than sitting down on a Sunday evening and working out what's for dinner in the week ahead. What do I feel like. What does the week look like? Or sometimes I'll do it the other way around.
Head to the markets on a Saturday morning and fill my basket with seasonal produce. How will I use that silverbeet this week? Moreso and moreso, this is all done on my phone. And I don't like it.
I've decided to update.