50,
Female
My father taught me to cook when I was the grand age of four, when I would kneel on a wooden chair in the kitchen as he showed me how to make jam tarts. Food has played a huge part in my life and from those early days of messy fun, I progressed to a more elaborate and refined way of cooking. During the 70’s, dinner parties were de rigour. At the ripe old age of 15, I’d serve soufflés to friends. Ostentatious - yes; pretentious – maybe, but I didn’t care, I was firmly hooked on cooking and fine food. I had a misguided notion of training as a chef, but a six-month spell working as a pastry cook at the Polytechnic of Central London dispelled that romantic fancy. Although passionate, I just couldn’t endure working in a hot, sweaty, gruelling environment, with lousy hours, poor wages and stroppy bosses. So I settled into various desk jobs where I could earn enough money to pay for my obsessions of eating out and cooking. Nearly half a century later, from those blissfully simple days at the kitchen table, I still eat out on a regular basis as a restaurant reviewer – hey someone has to do it; cook for friends, sourcing ingredients from specialist shops, farmers markets, local butchers and bakers. Is my passion an obsession? Most definitely, as my waistline is my witness!