Notes from a reluctant kitchen...

Confession: I hate food writing. In undergrad, I took a creative non-fiction writing course, during the course of which we were required to read and attempt different genres. I loathed the food segment, during which we were force-fed Amanda Hesser's insipid (to my mind anyway) Cooking For Mr. Latte, and encouraged to send food-related "dispatches" from our fall break travels. At its worst, food writing makes me nauseous. I love a good restaurant review (this one, by the delightfully acerbic A. A. Gill in this month's Vanity Fair is a gem), but I can't stomach the actual description of food itself. I've been like this since childhood - a description of french fries in Ramona Cleary, Age 8 actually made me gag. Food writing repels me in a way that echoes the revulsion I feel flipping through the love scenes of a Harlequin romance (not a regular activity, to be fair, though my late great aunt was a devotee) or when listening to undergraduates attempting to "understand" T. S. Eliot. Some experiences, eating among them, are too sensual to reduce to prose.

Far better to just provide pictures, which is the method I've chosen to share with you several Polish-themed food adventures we have recently undertaken in the Flat of Doom. What catalysed this sudden culinary activity? Essentially, we've become a bit sick of eating out and, since attempting to grocery shop the way we would in the UK (fresh bunches of coriander from the Asian grocery store purchased on a twice-weekly basis, a significant Waitrose habit, really good bread), we thought we'd go (a bit) native and see what happened. Before beginning, I should express my thanks to the Bomi Delicatessan, aka War-trose, for providing a happier shopping experience than Dirty Carrefour and consistently stocking mushrooms, the lack of which had really been getting us down:

Our first attempt took place last Friday and was not a terribly high-brow meal, being comprised mainly of pierogies and hotdogs. Accordingly, we lit candles and banned all condiment jars/bottles/etc. from the table:

We rescued the pierogies from the freezer, to which Paul had relegated them while I was in Prague. I'd bought them during one of our first Warsaw grocery shops, since they rekindled fond memories of undergrad and a certain Mrs. T...

As will be evident from the above photo-collage (diky, photovisi), the amusement factor of the meal was significantly elevated by the inclusion of these sensible, if slightly rude-looking hot dog rolls.

Yesterday, I embarked on a new adventure, this time alone. I decided I felt like cake, and that it was therefore time to investigate the baking aisle. As each country's flour is a law unto itself, I decided to cheat by using a mix. I chose lemon cake, since my body, possibly in an attempt to ward of what feels like inevitable scurvy, has been craving all things citrus. Also because I could understand the directions.

Here are the ingredients I assembled. Note the semi-terrifying long-life milk and scary baking margarine, which I am nevertheless extremely proud to have properly identified.

And here is the (not terribly glamorous) result:

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Slightly burned, though still tasty. I shall not elaborate, as that would stray into food-writing territory. I will, however admit that, while it's been fun, and may doubtless continue, I'm quite pleased to be putting the Polish culinary experimentation on hold tonight in favor of dinner at Frida.