I had never steamed anything before last autumn, when I moved into a flat with a broken oven. For a few days, I paced around the house trying to keep busy: I painted the kitchen, excavated the cellar (then barricaded the door when I saw something in the dark) and sketched plans for a vegetable patch that’s yet to materialise. It had been a week before it occurred to me that perhaps I could steam, not bake. The kitchen was soon warm, the windows coated with condensation and pudding on the table. I was finally at home.
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