I love cooking blogs

[dianeduane]

And foodblogs in general. Not least because of unexpected moments like this:

Mrs Weasley glissa un bol au-dessous, juste à temps pour recueillir l'épaisse soupe à l'oignon fumante qui s'en déversait.
(Harry Potter et le prince de Sang-Mélé - J.K. Rowling)

In my kitchen...baking cookies has some of the most handsomely handled images of any foodblog I know. Other close competitors in this department: Kitchenmage and Le Hamburger et la Croissant.

Some other favorites:

• Les Culino-tests


• Is My Blog Burning?


• My Life with Garlic


• Simply Recipes


• Visual Recipes


• Nice Cup of Tea and a Sit-Down

Comments

Re: kitchenmage here

[dduane.livejournal.com]

(grin) We're not quite blase about it yet (and you wouldn't be either, if you'd been through the kind of crap we suffered through/of/with to get this thing made. Mostly we consider ourselves lucky to have survived. Making your first miniseries is like making the Black Turkey recipe for the first time. Except over and over and over again...).

But brag away. :) And if you felt like pointing to a link to my new e-book, (http://raetiantales.blogspot.com) I wouldn't complain. (Well, it does have food in it!!)

This time of year was not much different from winter in terms of what you got to eat. There might be toasted cheese, and some cold wheat porridge from the morning, sliced and fried in lard, or on Sundays, in butter. There would be a piece of wheat bread, or some oat bread if the wheat was getting scarce. It was a long time since the pig was killed; a scrap of bacon from the dwindling flitches hanging smoke-blackened in the chimney, or a chunk from the salt-meat crock, might go into a pot of barley soup for Sunday dinner; but until the sow farrowed, this would get less likely. To drink, there would be barley-water, for the cows weren’t yet in milk. The supplies in the pantry were dwindling, and would do so until summer. Mariarta had been watching her mother’s worried looks at the store cupboards, and noticed how their key never left her mam’s belt.

So when Mariarta returned and was set to scrubbing the big table in the kitchen, she was astonished to see the porridge that had been boiling now set aside. The smaller butter-tub sat on the sideboard, with a great scoop out of it; and one of the old dry-spiced sausages that her mam tempted her bab with. Ten whole slices of it lay on one of the earthen plates: soup that smelled of oats and bacon was simmering in the pot that hung from the crane. Her mam was rasping half a hard sweet cheese to go into it, the cheese that bab washed in wine and dried under the eaves...

(sigh) Now I'm hungry. And Peter's eating the last of my chicken noodle soup. Rats.