A lush and gorgeous guide to all things food and entertaining from Jane Green, New York Times bestselling author of Jemima J, The Beach House, and Falling.
 
Jane Green’s life has always revolved around her kitchen…

… from inviting over friends for an impromptu brunch; to wowing guests with delicious new recipes; to making sure her ever-on-the-move family makes time to sit down together. For Jane, food is enjoyable because of the people surrounding it and the pleasures of hosting and nourishing those she cares about, body and soul.

Now, Jane opens wide the doors of her stunning home to share tips on entertaining, ideas for making any gathering a cozy yet classy affair, and some of her favorite dishes, ranging from tempting hors d’oeuvres like Sweet Corn and Chili Soup,to mouthwatering one-pot mains like Slow-Braised Onion Chicken, to sinfully satisfying desserts like Warm Chocolate and Banana Cake.

This book is Jane’s perfect recipe for making a wonderful life complete with friends, loving family, and moments filled with good food, good times, and, of course, Good Taste.

Release date: October 4, 2016

Pre-order now:

“Her compelling tale reflects an understanding of contemporary women that’s acute and compassionate, served up with style.”―People

“The kind of novel you’ll gobble up at a single sitting.”—Cosmopolitan

“A smart, complex, character-driven read.”—The Washington Post

“Warm, witty, sharp and insightful. Jane Green writes with such honesty and zing.”―Sophie Kinsella, New York Times bestselling author

In a novel of changing seasons, shifting lives, and selfless love, a story unfolds—of one woman’s far-reaching journey to discover who she is truly meant to be…

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Available now for pre-order. 

The other day I found myself crawling slowly along the road while clusters of MAMILS – Middle-Aged Men In Lycra – cycled along the bike path two and three abreast, as I grimaced and swore at them from the quiet and safety of my car.

Where did these men come from? I understand that something strange happens to women at around the age of 45, with menopause fast-approaching, when we suddenly stop sleeping, burst into tears for no reason, and are irritated by everything. Could this be the modern version of the male mid-life crisis? They run out and buy cycling shorts in fifty shades of black?

I approached a traffic light where two old boys were balanced on their souped-up bicycles, helmets bobbing as they chatted. The light changed, they very slowly creaked their limbs up as I finally lost it.

“Come on!” I shouted, rather politely I thought. There were no swear words involved. The men looked round in disgust, as I shrank in horror, and gave a big smile and a wave, pretending to be joking.

The one on the right was my husband.

There were more further up the street. All these men used to commute into Manhattan on a daily basis, and then either retired, took a redundancy, or decided to stay home and bother their wives by mooching round the house all day asking what’s for lunch, where are you going, and are you writing today? No? Why not? Don’t you have a book due?

Once upon a time I was in a relationship with someone who worked from home. Every time I would stand in the doorway and ask if he would do something for me, he would sit behind his large mahogany desk and bark that he was very busy. I would gaze over his shoulder to the reflection of his computer screen in the darkened window, and the only thing I ever saw on that screen was computer solitaire. Every time.

I’m not sure about the whole men being at home thing. On the one hand, I love it. Now when the children have doctor’s appointment and Beloved comes to remind me, I bark that I am very busy, as I turn the iphone upside down to hide my facebook activity.

On the other hand, I quite miss having the house to myself. I miss that me time when girlfriends come over and we could sit at the kitchen table talking up a storm for hours and hours. Every time a friend comes over now, Beloved now comes in to say hello. He sits. And stays. He has become my most reliable gooseberry, and although I love him, I’m quite missing the kind of girlie gossip that only happens when the men have gone.

Luckily for me, there is lunch. The Organic Market is a largely-male-free zone, which has subsequently become my meeting place of choice.

As long as you don’t tell my husband.

I had breakfast this morning with Funny Girl. We went, as we always do, to the local diner, and we spent much of our two-hour breakfast, as we always do, discussing our problems with food and what we look like.

Funny Girl orders, as she always does, a plate of fruit, one toasted English muffin, and a side of Canadian bacon (which is essentially thick-sliced ham, fried). She ate three grapes, a slice of melon, half the muffin, one slice of bacon, and took the rest home for her mother.

I ordered (more…)

A while ago, a friend of mine lost a child in a terrible and tragic way. She began to knit things for the people she loves. In the thick of her grief, her friends would go to the mailbox and find an envelope stuffed with colorful hand-knitted items, with grief, and loss and love winding through every stitch.

I thought about this today, as I pulled the hat she had knitted me from the depths of the closet, and wore it on my way to the doctor’s office, the russet and orange skeins of wool perfect for this rainy Fall day. I rest my hand on that hat frequently; every time I do I feel the love, and pain, that went into it.

I have been thinking about conscious acts of love, about how we choose to live, while musing over an article that came out in the New York Times over the weekend. It was an article that characterized both my husband and I in ways that are so misinformed, so factually misleading, so viperous, it was almost funny. Almost.

If you have heard me speak at an event, you may very well have heard me tell the – apocryphal – story of a woman who pulls into the gas station in my town of Westport. She tells the attendant she is moving here next week, and asks what the town is like, what will she think of it?

He looks at her and asks what the town is like where she is moving from.

“It’s awful,” she says. “The people are rude, and entitled. They are greedy, arrogant, and self-absorbed. We haven’t made a single friend in all the years we have lived there.”

He nods, knowingly. “Well,” he ventures. “I think you’ll find Westport is much the same.”

A few days later a different woman pulls in, and tells him that she is moving to Westport with her family, and what kind of a town is it?”

He asks her what her old town is like.

“It’s wonderful,” she says, her eyes tearing up. “The people are warm, and inclusive. They give back, they are connected to their community, and they welcome everyone. We have met the loveliest people we have ever known.”

“Good,” he says. “I think you’ll find Westport is much the same.”

I believe that life is where you look. I believe that whatever we put out, we will get back a thousand fold.

When a newspaper of repute prints a story like this in the Style section, however distorted and subjective, people accept it as fact.

And yet today, finally, I am beginning to understand that this story says far less about me, and far more about the person who wrote it, who snaked her own agenda through every line.

The people I love, knit hats in their darkest hour. They write articles that rejoice in other people’s creativity, entrepreneurship, and success. Kindness, care and respect, are the keys to living a good life.

I may not be any of the things I am described as being in the paper last weekend, but I am so very much more, mostly because I am surrounded by wonderful people – family, readers, and friends.

If you’re on this page, thank you. And if you bought that paper a few days ago, wrap it round some fish and chips, douse it with vinegar and salt, and enjoy.