Coco

Cookbooks for me fall into two categories. There are the filthy ones, veritably Pollocked in grease and thumbprints with gossamer whispers of ancient garlic skin embedded in their very vertebrae. Lovingly frayed around the edges, these are the ones you want to cook from time and time again; or at least until they fall apart.

Then there are the beautiful coffee table tomes, the more pristine creatures you carry into the bedroom rather than the kitchen and lazily leaf through, inspired by the recipes but knowing deep down you’re not really ever going to traipse all over town looking for loquats and teal.

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