The Vegetarian Epicure

In a moment of motherly brilliance, my mum came over two years ago bearing the most thoughtful gift: an antique vegetarian cookbook from a hipper age called The Vegetarian Epicure.  If the illustrations of wavy-looking people bedecked with flowers and embroidered tunics aren't an automatic tip-off as to what kind of lifestyle the author endorses, then perhaps the chapter denoting after-dinner "grass" smoking would be a clue. 

(Webmistress's note:  Though I admit to being fascinated with most things bohemian-flavored, I see the drug phenomenon loping alongside hippie culture like a slow, slobbery neighborhood dog that likes to trip up morning joggers.  Ugh.  To quote Neil Young, a lot of good art goes down the drain. What a waste of gray matter.)

All Californianism aside, I love this book still.  And on days like today when the pressure in my sinuses outweighs the pressure at work, the only things I find remotely palatable are vegetable soup and bread.  There's something about the repetitive action of kneading and chopping that releases tension like a balloon. :)