My dad told me my eyes were bigger than stomach. Being a doctor, albeit a psychiatrist, I took this literally, envisaging my innards being invaded by two elongated eyeballs that drooped from my sockets down the back of my throat like leaking razor clams, skimming my spine and skidding down my thighs, coming to a pendulous end somewhere inside my knee caps. Despite my confused sense of anatomy, this misinformation presented a valid reason to keep consuming. I was a mutant eating machine with tardis eyes.
My mum was equally astute to her child’s greed and nicknamed me “Ganet” (yellow headed bird that overconsumes). I was a puppy fat child who hummed whilst I ate and had hunger-based temper tantrums. Not much has changed, though I drink more gin, eat chocolate as a rule, hope that the fat is slightly better distributed round my body and haven’t had a frozen mini pizza from Iceland for about 20 years.
I am irritatingly proud of my skills of identification for fruit and vegetables. Especially those that come from countries that I have never been to. I have invested a lot of sticky fingers and the occasional upset stomach in my quest to know it all. From Kingsland Road to Hoi An, poking a box of red/green/yellow/other unknown edibles is an opportunity to test myself on the limits of my self-educ-Ate It wisdom. Coming from London, where Mangosteens sit alongside Soursops, Jackfruit, Sugar Cane, Breadfruit, Green Papaya, frozen bags of Acai, Snake Gourds and Taro, I’ve had a most comprehensive teacher. This, to me, is London at it best, where the availability and adventures with new produce marks trends in migration, coaxing assimilation. This is a working archive of the well-travelled produce that ruptures these concrete streets, my cooking experiments with it and, I hope, some stories and advice from the people who sell it. I apologise about carbon footprint of this project. I have tried to redeem myself with apples.
My mum was equally astute to her child’s greed and nicknamed me “Ganet” (yellow headed bird that overconsumes). I was a puppy fat child who hummed whilst I ate and had hunger-based temper tantrums. Not much has changed, though I drink more gin, eat chocolate as a rule, hope that the fat is slightly better distributed round my body and haven’t had a frozen mini pizza from Iceland for about 20 years.
I am irritatingly proud of my skills of identification for fruit and vegetables. Especially those that come from countries that I have never been to. I have invested a lot of sticky fingers and the occasional upset stomach in my quest to know it all. From Kingsland Road to Hoi An, poking a box of red/green/yellow/other unknown edibles is an opportunity to test myself on the limits of my self-educ-Ate It wisdom. Coming from London, where Mangosteens sit alongside Soursops, Jackfruit, Sugar Cane, Breadfruit, Green Papaya, frozen bags of Acai, Snake Gourds and Taro, I’ve had a most comprehensive teacher. This, to me, is London at it best, where the availability and adventures with new produce marks trends in migration, coaxing assimilation. This is a working archive of the well-travelled produce that ruptures these concrete streets, my cooking experiments with it and, I hope, some stories and advice from the people who sell it. I apologise about carbon footprint of this project. I have tried to redeem myself with apples.
