When you are partying in a field, a warming bowl of aromatic vegan veg curry on a bed of rice is most reassuring. The field had been transformed overnight into a human encampment with dance tents, music and smoking fires. And a kitchen under canvas to which I gravitated.
Andy was catering. He had borrowed pots, hired gas rings and an urn, and was cooking at a trestle table. I have a gypsy fantasy of being a festival cook but it’s bloody hard work.
Anyway, we chat about food and he mentions a friend studying at the Slow Food university called Henry.
“Henry who?” I ask, thinking of Henry Hoffman
“Henry Hoffman,” says Andy.
This is the one and the same Henry who commented about my pics from Italy saying, quite rightly, my header pic needs serious attention.
The sages say there is no such thing as a coincidence. Here I am in a Somerset field meeting someone who was schoolboy pal and is fellow foodie with the unknown stranger-person who commented on my blog.
If I am to extract a deeper meaning, I would say I need a new header pic asap. And possibly help from Henry Hoffman himself.