I watched the snow fall on Saturday and wished I could go sledding. It’s horrifying to me that the last time was when my oldest son was around four years old and we lost control and rammed right into a lamp post.
An intimate understanding of a culture is found in learning about foreign ingredients and why and how they’re put together. It’s one aspect of a people’s place in the world that you can’t take away from it, never blow up.
If you ask me what to do about a hangover, I’ll suggest you might want to look up a cure under invalid cooking.
Seen on a Bronx street corner upon the darkness of the winter solstice, it’s strangeness disappears and its wonder magnify.
I’ve always thought I should make my own plum pudding but I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that it calls for suet. I love suet. It is my version of Proust’s madeleine–not as classy, I know, but just as evocative a memory, recalling my mom’s Sunday roast beef dinner cooked with a healthy slab of suet on top that kept the meat moist and added a rich flavor of its own. I just couldn’t see it playing any part in a cake.
I wasn’t thinking YEAH! LET’S DO IT!! But he sounded so excited. My child still wants to be with his mom, thinks she’s cool. CRAP.
If you have spent any time with my writing, you know I’m nothing if not lazy and low-rent. So you will not find recipes, absolutely no decorating/centerpiece instructions here.