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I can think of several people right off the bat who would delight in Jennifer Paterson and Clarissa Dickson Wright’s chatty, earthy, diet-be-damned cooking show, and they’re all middle-aged or older, plump, and love to sit at my table and eat my food and drink my wine and talk, talk, talk—rather like Paterson and Wright themselves. Sadly for my guests, I won’t pluck dinner from the sand at the sea shore nor behead a wriggling eel nor putter about the environs in a motorcycle and sidecar and feed them with whatever I’ve found in markets and fishstalls, farmstands and butchers counters that day. But I wouldn’t turn down such an offer from Paterson and Wright to take over my kitchen, no matter what questionable fare was served up, no matter the mess left behind. These ambassadors of culinary Britain are witty, charming, and fearless in their travels, cuisines, and conversations. For those of us who cannot always live so well so literally, we can at least invite these ladies into our homes for a lesson or two in, among other things, cooking.
