1947 became memorable as the
coldest winter, April as the wettest
spring, of the century.
It was during those icy, hungry,
weeks that I took refuge from
reality in writing down memories
of the food I had cooked and eaten
during my Mediterranean years. As
I did so, my remote and at the time
rather austere Greek island life
began to take on the glow of a lost
Paradise of plenty and glamour. As
for my war years in Alexandria and
Cairo, the food had indeed been
plentiful, varied, and often truly
delicious. I had of course, although
without realizing it, become