The First Words I Heard When I Got Off the Plane Were Mamma Mia...

Blimmin' Warm Innit?

It is 25 degrees outside, and the Librarian is wearing a scarf.

Let that sink in.

I grew up in Cornwall – some of our peak July temperatures don’t hit 25. And the Italian librarian is wearing a scarf.

See, that’s the funny thing when you’re treading the line between ex-pat and immigrant. You feel compelled to belong, and that desire to belong makes everything seem slightly alien. I wore shorts in the nippy Durham Aprils, so why, oh why, are the Italians still wearing winter coats. I got uncomfortably sweaty on the (very) short walk between my breezy apartment and the library, bogged down in jeans and a t-shirt (so as to not attract too many stares to my pale, yellow little legs). This temperature usually calls for my mesh vest and cutoffs.

This urge to be included has the strangest effect on one’s motivations – I expected, by now, almost two months in to this latest (very stupid) leap into the great unknown, to be in desperate need of a pasty and a pint of real ale and a good strong cup of PG tips, but these tawdry, mundane things wane in comparison to the desire to eavesdrop on a conversation that doesn't just sound like vaguely angry nonsense, to go shopping and not have to carefully scour the packaging of staple foods to make sure you haven’t bought something similar in appearance but exasperatingly different to what you wanted (and don’t get me started on extension cords).

But so goes life; on the spur of the moment I swapped this:

I know, I know, the framing is ALL wrong

 for this:

That chin and squint are all natural, ladies

 And though there are times when I miss the rolling hills and roiling waves of the Cornish sea-front, Florence has some perks tucked away in those olive groves, and two that have already totally captured my heart are found at the dinner table. Now, I’m not about to detract from British cuisine here; I’m sure, to the average onlooker, there’s plenty to bemoan about the UK diet, but like the rest of Europe there’s plenty of history, ingenuity and variety to be found on the plates of that tiny island, and I intend to explore that more thoroughly as time goes on. Although, I might add, our choice of wine is shit.

There’s something about food that inspires me; if I eat something I enjoy, I want to learn how to recreate it myself. I enjoy the science behind the cooking, the history of the ingredients, the anthropology of the dish in the modern day. Food betrays the great lack of logic that plagues our species; we could get by every day on a flavourless nutrient paste (indeed, it would be much better for the environment), but we don’t. We spice our rice. We butter our bread. We force feed our geese on rich corn so that we can eat their diseased livers.

So welcome to my new food blog. There’ll be recipes. There’ll be book-learnin’. There’ll be me.

Comments and suggestions appreciated.

B.