The Easy Cakes of Ottolenghi
‘food that is closer to the source … emanating from genuine instincts’
In his salad days of skins and caves, man
gave chase. He slaughtered buck, swallowed
the heart. He knew adrenaline, hauled woman
after woman by the hair. That’s all gone.
Now there’s money and a new ache every day,
sags in unexpected places, a loss of collagen
and desire. Hunger’s always knocking
at the edges, just the tongue that’s jaded.
The waitress leans into the table:
Sorrel sir, or salsify? The soft salt melt
of sea-bream, halibut, a thrill
of salsa, quince and pomegranate.
Then dessert: the easy cakes of Ottolenghi
drip their syrups, glisten in the night, secrete
fresh tones of apple, grenadilla, rose.
, an award winning poet, an Ottolenghi fan and "a woman that thinks too much," according to Sami, has written this smart-and-witty poem after attending our cooking class in December. She promises to write more.