A Cook's Notebook

In the past few weeks, on three separate occasions, I have met three different women who for years (one for more than 30 years) volunteered for the Samaritans. All three have now quit. One, Sarah Anderson, said: ‘Chad Varah [the founder] must be spinning in his grave.’ The Samaritans has changed, they say. It still provides a vital service, being the only 24/7 helpline for potential suicides or other desperate people — but it’s become a one-number call-centre, where the call goes to the next available volunteer, probably hundreds of miles away. Face-to-face conversations are now rare, and they’ve given up their old ‘absolute confidentiality’ policy. Sarah has set up a new counselling service called The Listening Place, which refuses to share information with the authorities. This means that the NHS cannot fund the organisation, but even so 400 volunteers have supported more than 2,000 people, many suicidal. Every one of them was contacted within 24 hours of being referred (usually by A&E, by their GP or by other charities), and were seen within a week, in person, by a volunteer dedicated to them. Really impressive.

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Anyone remember this ditty, usually said in a Bronx accent? ‘The spring is sprung, the grass is ris / I wonder where the boidie is? / They say the boid is on the wing / But that’s absoid. The wing is on the boid.’ I think of it every year when the may is out.

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Things have changed since I last flogged a cookbook more than 25 years ago. Back then, pomegranate seeds were unheard of, no one knew of yuzu juice, and my audiences were 99 per cent women. Now nine-year-olds tell me about their cornbread, and real men make fairy cakes. I’m also struck by the generation divide. The young want quick veggie recipes and the greyheads yearn for devilled kidneys.