A 48-page editorial piece on inherited recipes. Half cookbook, half confession. Typeset in a single serif, printed on uncoated cream.
Marigold came out of a conversation with my mother about a dish she claims she invented. She didn't. But the story of how she thinks she did is better than the recipe, so I wrote both.
The book is small — roughly A5 — bound in a loose chapbook style so it can lie flat. Every chapter has one photograph and one recipe and one lie.
48 pages, three test prints, one final riso run. Currently on the shelf of exactly seventeen friends and relatives.
Drop a flip-through MP4 here to replace the placeholder.
Three short passes — one to figure out the fold, one to make it look like a real object, one to give it a tiny life of its own.
The writing came first. I wrote all 12 short chapters before opening InDesign.
A tight 6-column grid. Photos live on one column only; text breathes on three. Lots of white.
Tested three papers. Picked the roughest — it kissed the ink in a way I couldn't fake digitally.