There have been many times this summer when my youngest has come into the kitchen and asked, ‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’, and I’ve said, ‘I don’t know. I’m not making any.’ Times when it’s been so hot I don’t want to apply heat to a single food. Even though many turn to griddling in such weather, I can’t bear the idea of standing there, turning fillets of chicken thigh as they spit tiny droplets of fat and my brow gets damper.
When the temperature goes above 32C, I’m like a toddler who needs a nap: grumpy, out of sorts. I don’t even want to look for ingredients. When I can’t find exactly what I need in the deep recesses of the spice drawer (it’s badly designed – like a sarcophagus for ancient powders and flaking cinnamon sticks), I angrily push it shut and decide to have fruit, cold from