Nigel Slater (1) (1956–)

A lovely memoir of growing-up and becoming sexually aware in the 1960s, told in bite-sized chunks of food memories.

I grew up at the same time as Nigel and I knew some of his loneliness and isolation, so I was rooting for him all the way. I cried when his beloved mother died when he was so young. I felt for him as his stiff and emotionless father showed his disappointment in the unsporty young Nigel. I winced with him at his overbearing and manipulative stepmother.

All the time, I could taste show more the lumpy Bisto gravy and the tinned peaches of a 60s childhood, alternately salivating and retching. Fascinating and evocative. show less

A British friend sent this to me a couple of years ago and it has been an absolute lifesaver. I use it all the time, at least once a week if not three or four! Although I enjoy the act of cooking, it's not something I feel particularly adept in or secure with yet (having only really started, in a big way, this past year). This is a great book for making practical meals, regularly, without a whole lot of experience under your belt.

Slater's book has a variety of really tasty, show more easy-to-understand recipes with a minimum of fuss and generally a minimum of ingredients, too. I've found his chicken recipes particularly nice, especially the "Chili Chicken with Pitta," which has become a firm favorite amongst all my friends. Although I must admit they usually take me a little more than half an hour, the recipes I've tried have all been well worth the trouble. I never thought I would be regularly saved by a cookbook from *Britain*, long the subject of culinary jokes - but I'm so pleased to be wrong! show less

Somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a version of me that spends the autumn and winter in my cabin with floor-to-ceiling windows that gaze across the deck to the surrounding forest. I wear Aran sweaters and drink small batch tea from handthrown mugs. (I'm pretty sure this version of me does not have children. Her house is definitely not as cluttered as mine. And she's way more zen. She probably does yoga.)

This version of me eats beautiful food called simply by the main ingredients: show more "butternut, feta, egg," for example, which is "Crisp, light, sweet, salty." (Ahem..."Makes 9 fritters. Serves 3"...in case you were wondering.) Or "onions, taleggio, cream." Or "beet, lentils, garam masala." Cooking and eating are both sensual, leisurely experiences, accompanied by fine wine.

This version of me doesn't worry about what time dinner gets to the table, whether it fills the bottomless stomachs of her (non-existent) adolescent boys. She is free to tarry over
Shallow bowls of rice cooked with milk and thyme in the style of a risotto. A verdant, filling soup of Brussels sprouts and blue cheese. A saffron-colored stew of sour cream, herbs, and noodles. Translucent fritters in a pool of melted cheese. Golden mushrooms astride a cloud of soft polenta.

The version of me reading Nigel Slater's book, the one who drinks grocery store wine while making food with less romantic, more utilitarian names (chickpea potpie, butternut squash enchiladas) enjoyed the food porn, but as an actual cookbook, it does not compute. show less

This is another 3.5 star rating, but lacking the ability to "split hairs" on goodreads, I take it to the next level.

What is painfully apparent from the first chapter of this book is that Nigel Slater lacked nourishment from the day he was born -- and remained that way until he reached adulthood and found his own reason for being. He seems to have been born into a family which had refined the art of witholding what a growing boy needs -- proper nourishment in body or soul.

From the first, we show more are inundated with images of food -- and there are lots of "empty calories" here: Rollos and sherry trifles; Cadbury's Mini Rolls and jam tarts; mashed potatoes and rice puddings; lemon curd and treacle tarts; crumpets and fruit cocktails swimming in syrup. The list is an endless parade of boiled down dinners and Cap'n Crunch breakfasts.

Admittedly, many of the British/American/Canadian post-war children were raised on this fare, given the new availability of treats groaning on the supermarket shelves; however, this emptiness was exacerbated in the Slater household by a twittery-headed mother who couldn't boil water and a self-centered Dad whose greatest comforts were found in endless jars of pickled walnuts, and inside his greenhouse, coddling pink begonias.

By the time I reached the chapter on Crumpets, I was starving, despite the groaning board presented before me. I felt I had gained 10 lbs in emptiness. I could only marvel that the little boy in this household survived to tell the tale. Not only did he survive, but he became one of the best, most-acclaimed chefs and food writers in the UK.

The story is told strictly from his point of view: a starving, angry, misunderstood little chap, who is quite clever, very funny at times, and desperate to get out of his prison. It is told from the self-centeredness of a child, with no room (or not much) for compassion and little insight into the world of adults. One feels somehow shrunken to the height of a ten-year old boy, feeling, seeing, tasting everything through his eyes, through his emotions. You feel -- absolutely -- what it is to be a child again and to have no filter on one's emotions, and no control over one's life.

I read it in one sitting -- a fascinating, thought-inducing way to spend a winter afternoon. show less