The motor for this prawn-related adventure is no more than Poetry's insouciant second cousin, Whim. As you know, when Mallory was asked why he climbed Everest, he replied "because it was there." So it is that with me, should you ask why I cooked these recipes, I shall say grandly, and with a lyric glaze in my eye "because they were there."
Is there a method or a masterplan, you may be moved to enquire. Will you do a meal a day? a supper a week? Will you cook each recipe from each chapter with the diligence of a lover who cannot bear to leave a stone unturned in the headless dash for Consummation (the deranged first cousin of Knowledge), until you have truly consomméd, and fully possessed each last drop, or pinch, or sliver or smear?
No, I tell you, read my lips I shall say puckishly, I am slave neither to my stove nor to any object, be it animate or in-.
Please, my companion is Whim. He and I reserve the right to go for days or weeks in supine indifference to this project; we may be minded to plan far ahead, fastidiously and with a quiver of military zeal about us, sending out invites, specifying attire, candle-worrying and the like. Whim and I may wake up one morning of a mind, and set about rustling Tom, Dick or Harry out to dine on tournedos rossini and peach melba. Occasionally, I shall cast Whim out, and take Jade for a bedfellow. You have been warned. We are nothing if not capricious.
Think of this as a casual acquaintance, and we may yet hope to be happy.
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