I lived in a rental house when I moved to New Zealand for very much longer than I had ever intended. I have since moved to a far nicer house with a delightful modern kitchen, complete with a full-length lighted pantry, corner cupboards with a lazy Susan in one and a splendid mobile quadruple rack in the other, a dishwasher, a sizeable sink, double oven, separate hob, efficient over-hob extractor, attractive tiled floor with under-floor heating and loads of cupboard space.
The house where I spent six years before the move towards the end of last year had a very small kitchen that was probably constructed in the 1950s or 1960s. The cupboards were not proper kitchen units but simply wooden cupboards – without adjustable shelves – built to fit the space. The cooker was rusting and I did manage to persuade the landlord to replace it – with cheapest model on the market. The extractor was a great heavy fan in a hole in the wall with no cover that terrified the life out of me every time I cleaned it. The flooring was badly damaged vinyl that was almost impossible to keep clean.
Given that I have spent a very large part of my life writing cookbooks, this travesty was not really a comfortable place to be.
What's going on , on the street outside your home right now?
Desperately sad story of the assisted suicide of a grieving mother




