A few weeks ago I was doing some much needed organising of old papers and stumbled across my very first rejection letter from a publishing house, whom I had sent a cookbook proposal to in 2010. Since my early 20’s I had been collecting and collating my grandmothers recipes, which she gave to me in piles of handwritten index cards and random bits of paper. Some she had written down purely to give to me (I told her I wanted to make a family cookbook) and some were so old, so beaten up, with food stains and folds and even one in her own mother’s handwriting. I started recording them all in and around 2004, in the evenings in my tiny little studio apartment in New Mexico. Eventually they were turned into the most amateur of books, which I printed and bound and gave out to family at a reunion. I told my grandmother that one day the recipes would be published, and in 2010 I randomly set out to do just that.
There will be no recipe here today, as these past ten days my mind has been elsewhere. Unless you have been living under the world’s largest rock (in which case how the hell are you reading my blog?!) there is very little chance you’ve not witnessed the devastating and heartbreaking photographs of Syrian refugees, telling their desperate, inhuman and unimaginable story that somehow, despite it’s severity, we seem to have overlooked or misunderstood. A reminder for some, but a true wake up call for many of us that we have spent far too long doing nothing. This unimaginable situation these very real people are facing unarguably requires action, and action from much more than just the powers known as government.