Me and my Dad at the seaside, him channelling his Kirk Douglas look
Seaweedy swimming togs, sandy buckets and spades and wet towels. Your dad cleaning globs of tar off your feet with a rag dipped in petrol. Being stuck inside a gently steaming caravan with rain drumming on the roof, your siblings squabbling and your parents getting increasingly ratty, while you tried to stay between the lines in your colouring book with wax crayons that were too fat and clumsy and broke at the wrong moment.
You wouldn’t think it was possible to get that nostalgic about a family holiday on the east coast of England, where the weather was famously “bracing” when it wasn’t actually raining. Continue reading →
There are nearly as many recipes for fried chicken as there are cooks. Marinated in buttermilk or not at all. Skin on and skin off. Coated in flour, dunked in breadcrumbs or (heaven forfend) crumbled cornflakes. Deep fried, shallow fried, oven baked or a combination thereof.