I write budget recipes. I have done for about 10 years now, publishing them for free on my online blog, and in books, several thousand of which have been given away free of charge to food banks. I do this because I was a food bank user, living in poverty, under the Cameron-Clegg-Osborne era of austerity Government. I found a way to cope with the mundanity and penury of my dismal day to day life, and I shared it, in case it could be helpful to anyone finding themselves in similar circumstances. I could have just done that, and probably been fairly wealthy by now, but unfortunately for me I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut and keep my personal brand palatable to the comfortable masses. But I find it unthinkable to simply offer up the canny ways to make a 45p bag of rice a bit less bland and ******, without also examining the reasons why people need them in the first place.
Early on in my career, I was advised to step away from political and social commentary, because I would ‘sell more books, be more palatable to the Waitrose set.’ I parted ways with that person pretty swiftly, because while I don’t doubt that my outspoken brand of visceral campaigning absolutely harms my book sales, I was a political writer, sitting in the public gallery of my local council meetings, blogging about the people who were making the decisions that disproportionately impacted me and my peers, like the closure of Sure Start centres, libraries, the demonisation of single mothers, the cuts to local funding, long before I ever wrote a list of basic ingredients down and scrawled together a recipe.
My food writing was an accident, dredged from desperation, paucity and despair. Tapped out on a Nokia E72 mobile phone, to the background harmonies of debt collectors banging on the door for the energy bill, and the mounting bank charges that rocketed into quadruple figures for a £6 missed bill. Sitting in a cold, uncarpeted flat, moving tin cans from the food bank around on the floor, chopping and changing a soup recipe.
I didn’t have a plan. Poverty is lonely, and isolating, monotonous and hopeless and grim, so I wrote about it because I’ve always written about things. Its how I process them, and anyway, nobody read my silly little blog so it didn’t matter. I documented the drudgery, the fear, the immobilising helplessness and depression, and I did it because I was planning to kill myself, and as niche and secret as it was, I wanted there to be some kind of record left of this excuse for a life when I was gone.