For me love started with an omelette. Well an omelette and an ill-advised spending spree the weekend prior to pay-day. It was a regretful Monday morning and I was facing the week with nothing but four eggs, a wizened onion and the determination not to go overdrawn.
I stared bleakly out the window of my flat at the back yard, optimistically pitched as a garden by the estate agent. My dingey gravel patch, whilst entirely lacking in grass, did boast an impressive quantity of stinging nettles and it was as I observed this thriving dystopia of weeds that the memory of Angela stirred in my mind.
Angela was one of my more eccentric friends, a self-diagnosed free spirit who subscribed to floral dress-wearing like a new wave religion. She was also able to subsist on £5 a week by the exclusive consumption of a bland and stringy, but decidedly edible, concoction of verge and hedgerow plants.
Surely, I thought to myself, if Angela could source her food for free then so could I. After a cheeky google to confirm that nettles were in fact edible, I equipped myself with some sturdy boots, wrapped my hands in plastic bags and waded manfully into the wilderness. Bear Grylls has nothing on me.
The resulting omelette was pretty unenjoyable tbh. The nettles were strangely gritty and I had boiled them to oblivion for fear of stinging my digestive system. Any flavour was removed along with the danger. However despite the whelming results I was hooked. I felt a real thrill at having created something entirely from scratch and in some way for having provided for myself. The process of cooking, before meerly functional, suddenly became fraught with exciting (and economical) new possibilities. I have been chasing that thrill ever since and I want to encourage you to join me!
“You need to let the little things that would ordinarily bore you suddenly thrill you.”
Featured Image: A much better omelette than mine. In the public domain via pixabay