Editor’s letter

IF YOU HAD TOLD ME 15 YEARS AGO –

while I was editing a fashion magazine and trying to lose all the kilos I had piled on after turning 30 – that I would be writing the editor’s letter of TASTE magazine from my bedroom in the ’burbs, a jar of sourdough starter bubbling next to the heater, I would never have thought it possible.

Working for a food magazine was a dream, for sure, but doing it from my bedroom, in the suburbs, while attempting to bake artisanal bread from scratch – that’s just crazy talk.

But stranger things have happened.

They’ve happened in the past few months. Two of the magazines that I edited back then, for Associated Media, have now closed, as has the company.

It is a tragic loss that was felt acutely by anyone who has ever championed print and brave media owners like the Raphaelys. It seems inconceivable now, but when I worked there we ran many campaigns against gender-based violence, racism and injustice – entirely without the help (or vitriol) of social media. It feels like that would have been impossible but it wasn’t – it was easier. There were no trolls, no memes, and people engaged in person rather than in a “thread”. Connections happened in real life, not online. To borrow from Karen Dudley, owner of The Kitchen, who writes in this issue about her iconic deli-restaurant’s closure (another terrible loss) “when people gather around something delicious they create culture”.

So what happens to culture when the only place you can “gather” is on social media? Sadly, the world becomes even more divided. Hopefully, by the time you read this the regulations will have been eased and we’ll be able to connect again IRL. We may be able to gather in restaurants, if not in our homes or offices, but I predict that our relationship with home cooking and eating out will be forever altered by this strange time.

My favourite part of this issue (aside from Abi’s toffee-apple pie on p 85, obvs) is where Khanya Mzongwana compares the lockdown cooking experience to a relationship in “The art of healing” (p 70). It is a brilliant observation. “In the beginning you’re cooking all these amazing elaborate dishes; then you get sick of it and start making sandwiches with leftovers and mustard.”

I am still in the throes of early-ish romance. I have made my own kimchi. I’ve baked irresponsible quantities of biscuits. I’ve swapped piping bags with La Tête chef Giles Edwards, who lives nearby, and, well I’ve already mentioned the sourdough. We’ll see how that goes, it’s early days.

But the thing I’m most proud of in my new relationship is my need to be resourceful. Now, I shop weekly, which I never did before, and I cook things I’ve never cooked before. I made a weeknight version of “chicken à la king” this week with the remains of a Woolies rotisserie chicken, one giant mushroom, an onion and half a bag of Swiss chard. We ate it with cauliflower I had steamed, then roasted whole with butter and olive oil. It was absurdly good.

When this relationship gets to the next level, I fantasise about becoming an expert meal planner: taking stock of the contents of the fridge and pantry, then deciding what to cook for dinner, Monday to Friday, with a me-time project for the weekend. The thought of this makes me happy, the hallmark of a healthy relationship.

This issue is designed to help you have a happier relationship with cooking too: from weeknight suppers that are easy-going and flexible to the ultimate test of your commitment: baking your own sourdough from scratch.

It’s true that love doesn’t always make us happy, and cooking is the same: sometimes you just want wine and pizza, but that’s where we come in. Consider this issue the ultimate agony aunt. You are not alone.

Love doesn’t always make us happy and cooking is the same: sometimes you just want wine and takeaway pizza”