This is a melange of writing, about how the author sets up home in her Edinburgh flat, and makes the kitchen space (that is practically the entire below-street-level floor) a home for her and a TARDIS for her to travel to times and places some distance away. Each chapter, and we get one per month for the year this loosely covers, the focus dithers between the dish she's making and the place that inspired it. This is almost a Cold War Kitchen, therefore, for pretty much everywhere was once behind the Iron Curtain (with the exception of Turkey, and the actual Scottish hillwalking contents).
And with that in mind I really ought to have liked this more than I did. I can forgive the typical Proustian response food causes for her – although how she tastes everything so forensically while a smoker I'm not sure. I've covered much of the ground here, from Bishkek (alright not on the night of violence after a contentious election) to Armenia and Riga's market hangars, but I really didn't get the feel of going back, however much I loved the places myself.
And I certainly could have done without the dog being mentioned so much.
There still is good writing here – the Bishkek night is certainly engaging, and her reactions to Krakow are definitely worthwhile. There is some peculiarity, too – the line about Turkey and the South Caucasus being so alike, when they're clearly not, and the fondness for the ubiquitous plov. But the bigger picture remains that this fits between two stools, and the way it hangs on to both with one desperate buttock each is most awkward. We have some kind of food writing, an homage to ex-Soviet wonders with a recipe every chapter to help us taste along, and we have her exploring the old Bloc, if that is what we're here for, really quite ineffectually and really badly interrupted by the cooking.
It doesn't give me pleasure to be cold to the Cold Kitchen. But this isn't the full, juicy manti it could have been – it's the handle bit you don't even really have to eat.