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openpantrydoorRead this mostly in the evenings after work. Half a chapter at a time with a cat on my lap and something sweet to eat. It’s funny how a book about food can feel like a meal itself. Bit scrappy. Bit salty. Filling in the ways you didn’t realise you were empty.
Dent writes like she talks. Like she’s leaning on the kitchen counter and won’t shut up until the story’s told properly. I liked that. Laughed out loud more than once which is rare for me. Got a bit misty too, at the parts about her dad. And those silent girlhood hungers. Not always for food.
It’s not tidy. A bit of a mishmash. Childhood memories jostling alongside telly jobs and fried egg sandwiches. But I think that’s the point. Comfort isn’t tidy either. It’s just what gets you through. What you can stomach when nothing else fits.
Four stars, if we’re giving stars. Lost one only because the TV anecdotes dragged a little for me. But the voice? That bone-deep northern knowingness? Worth keeping. Like a chipped plate that makes the best toast taste better.
