okonomiyaki me

A weekend in Paradise cottage – more sleeping, yet again – and re-entry to the east end softened by dinner for both David and I for a total of £2. And an impromptu meeting about our upcoming – yippeeee – Glastonbury coverage this year… 5 months and counting…

Nearly free and therefore infinitely superior dinner was Turkish stuffed peppers, okomiyaki and onigiri. There’s nothing like a stroke of good luck to make your food taste that bit more delicious.

I think I have a glutinous starch obsession. Put like that it sounds horrible, but I’m going to experiment with making onigiri (japanese rice balls) over the next few weeks and will keep you posted. Black sticky rice, too. Meanwhile, for those of you who are vaguely interested in my ongoing Brazilian tapioca (starch a-go go) mission: jolly good news. Authentic, bona fide Brazilian tapioca has arrived from Brazil, via-Air France lost luggage depots, and will soon be put through its paces. It better turn out as good as I remember, after nearly a year of trying to replicate the unctious, amazing pancakes of Jericoacoara back in September 2002.

A funny thing, the memory. How a food – a single mouthful, an almost forgotten lingering-fleeting hint of a taste – can capture a portion of your mind, sit neatly on the sidelines of your thoughts and quietly nag to be revisited, improvised, itched. Liquid evocation, distilled by the positively blurring effects of time. Is the relief of tasting ever as good as the memory demands? We’ll see.

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