Thick glossy cookery books entice me the heavier the better Layered with tangible ingredients and places Like apricot and prickly pear, kudu and Karoo With recipes that read like poetry under my fingertips I gorge my senses in bookshops absorbing pictures of loaded tables and exquisite gardens heavy with the luxury of time I don’t quite know what they give to me except maybe wistfulness The sense of wanting to be somewhere else Far from traffic, concrete, the rush of ordinary lives The reality of scrambled eggs or two-minute noodles.
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