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Toast | *New* from the Slightly Foxed bookshelves

Toast | *New* from the Slightly Foxed bookshelves

Introducing the forthcoming addition to the Slightly Foxed Editions list, No. 71: Nigel Slater | TOAST Nigel Slater, OBE, is perhaps Britain’s most treasured food writer, loved by cooks the nation over for his comfortingly do-able recipes and his colourful writing, the companionable tone of his bestselling cookbooks and his longstanding column in the Observer. In his funny and poignant memoir Toast he describes the ingredients that combined to make him the cookery writer he is today – a childhood that certainly had very little that was comfortable about it.
A Second Home | ‘Seven years ago, is it really so long? They were years in which perhaps half a million words were drafted and redrafted . . .’

A Second Home | ‘Seven years ago, is it really so long? They were years in which perhaps half a million words were drafted and redrafted . . .’

When Dame Hilary Mantel died, many readers of her novels learned more about her life and her heroic struggle with the serious medical condition from which she suffered for many years without a diagnosis. Nowhere is this more vividly or more movingly described than in her own powerful and haunting memoir, Giving up the Ghost. It is a story of ‘wraiths and phantoms’, a story not easy to forget.
A Spy in a Courteous Enemy Camp | ‘You would find first, I think, if placed in the situation yourself, that it was extraordinarily interesting . . .’

A Spy in a Courteous Enemy Camp | ‘You would find first, I think, if placed in the situation yourself, that it was extraordinarily interesting . . .’

In 1972 James Morris booked a return ticket to Casablanca and underwent what would now be called gender reassignment surgery. Soon afterwards Jan Morris wrote a book about what it had felt like to live – or try to live – for forty odd years with the absolute conviction that she was a woman trapped in a man’s body, and how this agony had finally been resolved. That book was Conundrum and when it was published in 1974 it caused a sensation.
‘The exhausted Meaulnes has the impression of a house long since abandoned – broken windows, missing doors . . .’ | From the Slightly Foxed Archives

‘The exhausted Meaulnes has the impression of a house long since abandoned – broken windows, missing doors . . .’ | From the Slightly Foxed Archives

Greetings from Hoxton Square, where we’re checking proofs of the next issue of SF, carefully unpacking early copies of the next hand-numbered Slightly Foxed Edition (No. 71: Nigel Slater’s Toast, decked out in a delicious toast-brown cloth), preparing for the release of Episode 53 of the Slightly Foxed Podcast on 15 April, and plotting a June trip to an intriguing little bookshop in Cambridge to toast the forthcoming quarter.
The Start of Something Big | ‘We are on our way to Oxford, the dazzling publisher and I, to visit a woman as old as the century . . .’

The Start of Something Big | ‘We are on our way to Oxford, the dazzling publisher and I, to visit a woman as old as the century . . .’

It is a Saturday morning in 1981 and Jennie Erdal is embarking on a journey with the man she calls ‘Tiger’, the flamboyant figure at the centre of Ghosting, the strange and gripping story of the twenty years in which she became his ghost writer, pulling the wool over the eyes of reviewers and turning him into the literary lion he had always wanted to be.
Bookish gift ideas for the maternal figures in your lives, be they mother or grandmother, aunt, teacher or friend

Bookish gift ideas for the maternal figures in your lives, be they mother or grandmother, aunt, teacher or friend

‘Always at night it came on; first the black panther under my bed, then wolves crowding in the shadowy corners of my room out of range of the nightlight, then snakes climbing up the walls. And my mother, finding that nothing else would reassure me, would spend large parts of each night carrying me wrapped in a shawl round and round the room and into all the corners, making me pat the walls to show myself that there was nothing there’

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