Sally Cunningham
I’m sitting in my friend Jiee’s minuscule kitchen, wedged between the washing machine and a stack of precariously balanced crockery, watching her cook. Outside, the rain lashes the windows and rattles the letterbox, but inside is calm, fragrant with star anise, garlic and grilled chillies. She’s making a winter melon soup: “Just the thing for a day like today. When my husband comes home he’ll smell it all the way down the road and it’ll power that pushbike of his superfast!”