February: month of the potato
It happens sometimes, but not very o en, that I am tired of cooking. The last time was a year ago, I think. Perhaps it was the grey Parisian skies, a dull and heavy workload, a form of seasonal affective disorder. Two days in a row, I walked past the fishmonger on the Rue Lepic and was strangely untempted by live spider crabs, glistening mackerel or fresh eel; even the razor clams le me cold. I stood in the vegetable shop and my eyes glazed with brassicas. Total lack of imagination.