My dream meal? Spam fritters and corned beef
Twenty-seven years ago, our cottage featured a charming walk-in pantry, with a tiny window which opened only a crack for ventilation. As young marrieds, we were cheerful and improvident but even in those days, as house chef and quartermaster, I took considerable trouble to build up a fortnight’s supplies in case we should be ‘snowed in’. I longed for this confinement but, as our tenure of the property coincided with a rise in anthropogenic climate change, it never happened. Meanwhile, the late historian Paul Johnson urged my wife to double the size of the cottage to make it ‘more bearable’. I was against this but, in those days, as my Jungian analyst at the time regularly maintained, my voice was ‘rarely heard’. Hence the pantry was swept away and became merely part of a narrow corridor and no extra food storage area was designed into the so-called extension. How I...
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