Editors' note
You are a little girl, and it is midnight. You cannot sleep and you tell your mum this, waking
her up from a quiet slumber. You both pad barefoot to the kitchen; bowls and wooden
spoons, white chocolate chips and dried raspberries. You spread, roll, fist-ball the dough into
neat little circles. You eat the cookies fresh from the oven, both at the same time, burning
your mouth, stifling giggles.
You are in love. It is not the first time, but it feels like the best. You are eating jam in a very
British way: with scones and milky tea, honey and clotted cream. You say scon, he says scone.
You both laugh and he looks at you and wipes jam away from your chin softly with his
finger, ‘You’re supposed to eat this,’ he says, and you decide to stay like this forever.
You are much older now. Your children have children and your husband is fading and pale,
but alive. He holds your hand. You sit around the table; it is your birthday, and you silently
wish this will never change. Family. Food. Mouths. Bellies. Tongues. Love. Your eldest
daughter carves the lamb thinly and with practised ease; your youngest drips mint sauce
onto your plate; your grandson passes you buttery carrots. You eat and eat. Every single bite.
Eating unites us all – as humans, as animals. We live to eat, and eat to live. Whether we are
chasing down our kill, growing our own food or cradling freshly laid eggs – eating, much like
making art, is one of the few places where we
can be as we always were: human.
Roll up your sleeves, readers. We invite you
to savour every word and splash of delicious
colour our contributors have laid out on the
table. It’s been fun preparing; we hope it’s
equally fun devouring.
Bon appétit.
Annabelle and Carlotta x
Illustration
Zoe Neilson