that’s for certain. Admittedly, I’ve sometimes mentioned lately that I’m not afraid of death. So it’s a mystery to me why I should dislike flying so much.
The brochure I’ve received says that the
Gullfoss
is 330 feet long and 48 feet wide. There are three passenger classes accommodating 210 passengers in all, 104 in first class, 62 in second and 44 in third. The shipping company boasts of the ratio of crew members to passengers. There is apparently one crew member for every three passengers. Along with the steward and assistant steward the staff consists of seven chambermaids, nine waiters, two bartenders and two wine waiters, in addition to cooks and kitchen staff. The ship will call at Leith en route from Copenhagen, docking this evening and setting sail late tomorrow. The voyage to Iceland takes two and a half days but I get the impression things are arranged so that we have to spend three nights on board.
I mean to use the time well during the voyage. For one thing, I want to reread the letters I wrote to Mother and Father while I was at the Commercial College. Gunnar, Jorunn’s husband, sent them to me after she died. He found them in an envelope in her bedside table. I also mean to carry on with this scribbling. I’d like to commit to paper some thoughts on cooking, as I’ve often been asked for recipes and advice but have seldom got round to putting anything on paper except notes as reminders to myself. I suppose it’s because I’ve long resisted any tendency to use formulae or scientific precision in cookery. To me, the food itself is the best way of conveying what I have in mind each time; the feelings can’t be adequately described in words. Moreover, I think there is a certain arrogance in precise recipes and I’m uncomfortable with laying down the law about how people should prepare their food.
The day before yesterday, for instance, I sneaked a few figs into the chicken I was about to roast. I did it at the last moment because I had a sudden intuition that Anthony would appreciate the flavor of figs when he tasted the bird. Somehow I sensed it in his expression when he came trailing back from the tennis court. Sometimes I’m moved to cook snails in honey for the simple reason that I’ve seen bees buzzing in the sunshine; sometimes a bird singing on a branch will give me the idea of putting blackberries or currants in the sauce I’m preparing; sometimes the breeze billows the curtain over the little window in the corner and I think perhaps I’ll serve baked cinnamon pears with the veal I have in my hands. Why? Did the breeze waft me the scent of spices from distant lands? Did it bring me a message from someone who was thinking kind thoughts about me?
How could I possibly put these feelings on paper without running the risk of spoiling the pleasure or revealing what should be discovered in peace.
Admittedly, there are people who can write sensibly about food and cookery. I had no sooner arrived in England than I began to read Eliza Acton and I still enjoy glancing at the articles Elizabeth David writes in the
Spectator.
She is almost never pretentious or overly sentimental and doesn’t use words like
succulent
or
sizzling,
which I so despise. She seems to enjoy more freedom there than she did when she wrote for the
Sunday
Times.
But as with everything else, this may just be my imagination.
5
Commercial College
October 28, 1934
Dear Father,
Winter descended without warning. All at once it began to snow. We were
out in the park and I called, “Joka, it’s starting to snow!” “Where?” asked
Joka absentmindedly. “Look up at the sky,” I said, “can’t you see it’s starting
to snow?” We chased the snowflakes for a while, then dashed across the street
and hurried home beside the lake. A little boy came toward us crying that he
was frightened of the snow. He was all alone. “I’m scared of it,” he said. “It
comes from outer space.”
We’re having a good time here in
The brochure I’ve received says that the
Gullfoss
is 330 feet long and 48 feet wide. There are three passenger classes accommodating 210 passengers in all, 104 in first class, 62 in second and 44 in third. The shipping company boasts of the ratio of crew members to passengers. There is apparently one crew member for every three passengers. Along with the steward and assistant steward the staff consists of seven chambermaids, nine waiters, two bartenders and two wine waiters, in addition to cooks and kitchen staff. The ship will call at Leith en route from Copenhagen, docking this evening and setting sail late tomorrow. The voyage to Iceland takes two and a half days but I get the impression things are arranged so that we have to spend three nights on board.
I mean to use the time well during the voyage. For one thing, I want to reread the letters I wrote to Mother and Father while I was at the Commercial College. Gunnar, Jorunn’s husband, sent them to me after she died. He found them in an envelope in her bedside table. I also mean to carry on with this scribbling. I’d like to commit to paper some thoughts on cooking, as I’ve often been asked for recipes and advice but have seldom got round to putting anything on paper except notes as reminders to myself. I suppose it’s because I’ve long resisted any tendency to use formulae or scientific precision in cookery. To me, the food itself is the best way of conveying what I have in mind each time; the feelings can’t be adequately described in words. Moreover, I think there is a certain arrogance in precise recipes and I’m uncomfortable with laying down the law about how people should prepare their food.
The day before yesterday, for instance, I sneaked a few figs into the chicken I was about to roast. I did it at the last moment because I had a sudden intuition that Anthony would appreciate the flavor of figs when he tasted the bird. Somehow I sensed it in his expression when he came trailing back from the tennis court. Sometimes I’m moved to cook snails in honey for the simple reason that I’ve seen bees buzzing in the sunshine; sometimes a bird singing on a branch will give me the idea of putting blackberries or currants in the sauce I’m preparing; sometimes the breeze billows the curtain over the little window in the corner and I think perhaps I’ll serve baked cinnamon pears with the veal I have in my hands. Why? Did the breeze waft me the scent of spices from distant lands? Did it bring me a message from someone who was thinking kind thoughts about me?
How could I possibly put these feelings on paper without running the risk of spoiling the pleasure or revealing what should be discovered in peace.
Admittedly, there are people who can write sensibly about food and cookery. I had no sooner arrived in England than I began to read Eliza Acton and I still enjoy glancing at the articles Elizabeth David writes in the
Spectator.
She is almost never pretentious or overly sentimental and doesn’t use words like
succulent
or
sizzling,
which I so despise. She seems to enjoy more freedom there than she did when she wrote for the
Sunday
Times.
But as with everything else, this may just be my imagination.
5
Commercial College
October 28, 1934
Dear Father,
Winter descended without warning. All at once it began to snow. We were
out in the park and I called, “Joka, it’s starting to snow!” “Where?” asked
Joka absentmindedly. “Look up at the sky,” I said, “can’t you see it’s starting
to snow?” We chased the snowflakes for a while, then dashed across the street
and hurried home beside the lake. A little boy came toward us crying that he
was frightened of the snow. He was all alone. “I’m scared of it,” he said. “It
comes from outer space.”
We’re having a good time here in
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