Pink is nothing but a state of mind.
We are now in the thick of what you might call “the bonfire season”, which runs from mid-October to the weekend after Guy Fawkes Night.
What does the term mean, other than that the wine is big, probably red, and certainly unaffordable?
Do you dislike Jamie Oliver because you’re ideologically opposed to his pasta dishes, or is it because the idea of a working class man who has acquired the privileges of middle class life pisses you off?
Scott Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Wicca in the Kitchen, “a practical guide to food magic”, promises, rather thrillingly, that from now on, every “munch of celery will resonate with new meaning”.
We’re aiming for 150 bottles, with “NW6” on the label and a bouquet of Bakerloo. But this is about more than wine. Could we rediscover lost skills and reconnect with each other?
I can understand the logic of opening a branch of Dirty Burger in Shoreditch – but Vauxhall? Although the spirit of gentrification is taking up residence here, the fact remains the place is still what is scientifically termed a shithole.
Most fizzy drinks are vile, yet some of those still do duty as mixers – the point here being, presumably, to cancel out one horrible taste with another.
You are inclined to think that polenta and gnocchi, blinis and burritos have always been with us. But they are not part of our collective conscience as they would be for the people who grew up eating them.
Less than a century ago Iraq’s ancient Jewish community made up a third of Baghdad’s population but is now estimated at no more than seven individuals.
This is perfect comfort food for those who’re feeling vertiginous as they contemplate the giddy extent of the ever-inflating London property bubble.
For illuminating stories on global events,
subscribe now from just £1 an issue