My local bakery

As a child I was regularly told stories about the UK by my parents and my maternal grandparents, all of whom spent several years here in the 1970s.  One story that stick in my mind was of people queuing for bread and meat and shops running out of basic provisions.  When I moved to London in 2006, I assumed that this situation would have passed.  And, save occasional moments of failure on the part of big supermarkets, I was right.  Stores were well stocked and usually had everything I required - if in a somewhat odd location.  So, imagine my surprise when I noticed a queue coming out the door of my local bakery.  Not only out the door but down the road and past several other shops.  This was last summer.  I have since bought bread at TJ Parker and Sons on Northfields Avenue several times.  It is a Saturday morning experience which I cherish - even last Saturday when it was bitterly cold and queuing on the street was a truly unpleasant experience.

It is the type of bakery which ought to no longer exist.  A queue out the door.  A small but varied range of beautiful cheap and fresh bread, cakes, and rolls.  You won't find herb and olive foccacia here (but it's ok - I plan to try making that using Nigel Slater's recipe in the Guardian last week) but you will find a perfect wholemeal loaf and brilliantly flaky croissants for Sunday morning breakfast.  You will find a staff comprised completely of women dressed in yellow dinner lady uniforms - circa 1961.  You will find that you are encouraged to select your own loaf of bread and pass it to one of these women who will bag it or, if you wish, take it away to be sliced to your preferred thickness.  For this you will be charged the princely sum of around 70p.

All of the above has made me fall in love with my local bakery.  However, I have not yet mentioned the one thing that excites me most.  Empty shelves.  When walking past TJ Parkers in the evening or on a Sunday, perhaps on the way home from the station or the pub, I occasionally glance in.  The shelves are completely bare.  I worked in my mother's cafe for several years and I know that the sign of a good food establishment is having empty shelves at the end of the day.

The people of Northfields and West Ealing are extraordinarily privileged to have a proper independent bakery which bakes fresh daily.  I just hope enough of us appreciate it to ensure it remains open, saving the locals from processed white supermarket bread.

I celebrated my 25th birthday in a none too remarkable way - it was early spring 2008 and I gathered with many friends to enjoy the watery sunshine in the beer garden at the Drayton Court pub in West Ealing, my local. My birthday was a fun day spent with people I love. It was not however extraordinary. Except for three extraordinary gifts. David, a friend from work, gave me The City of London Cook Book by Peter Gladwin. Cat, a friend from pub quiz, gave me Nigel Slater's Kitchen Diaries (this remains the only cookbook I have ever read from cover to cover). And Justine, a friend with whom weekends are rarely spent without, gave me my first Le Creuset dish. Duck egg blue, it is small but perfect.

To say that these three gifts started my love affair with food and cooking would be to exaggerate a point. My mother was a caterer when I was growing up and went on to own a cafe. She is therefore a very good and imaginative cook and I was brought up to love and appreciate good food. These gifts did however kick start my appreciation of food as an adult. This blog is intended to chart my cooking and eating experiences for my own sake. Should it inform, entertain, amuse others, that would be a bonus.