let me confess. I am an addict, and it don´t look like I´ll be recovering any day soon.
my house can´t hold any more cookbooks. they have overflowed from the kitchen bookcase, and sit on chairs, nestle on headboards, under sofas, on radiators and window sills. they lurk in stray piles of papers on my desk, inside drawers, under sofas.
and I just give in to my cravings, with no thought for my personal space.
yesterday at the bookfair, I bought 3 new cookbooks. they only set me back €7, how could I resist?
it´s very stupid. the equivalent of having 67 pairs of jeans. and only wearing the same 3, of course.
I could cook all my life with a handful of the books I own, but I go on buying. there is so much promise in a cookbook. it sets my mind off, ideas for menus and occasions bumping into one another and shooting off sparks.
so , what does it matter if all I have afterwards is a tuna sandwich or a bowl of tomato soup? I enjoy my artificial paradise, and that´s that.