Sundays in France are made for: mornings in the kitchen and afternoons in the garden. With a possible visit to the vide-grenier [garage sale] and a few drinks at a café.
[Matcha ice-cream mochi]
Almost a year ago, a boy-friend – at times with a dash, most of the time, without – gave me two Japanese manuals.
A textbook and a workbook. They were both in one of those Muji clear pockets I love so much.
[On April snow and breakfast in bed - A five-minute brioche]
When I mentioned the five-minute brioche, I forgot to say it’s more of a five-minute and five-day brioche.
Five days where the blossoms turned into snow.
[On the menu today - The (not so) classics of my childhood]
Childhood memories are – more often than not – strongly related to food.
The slice of store-bought chocolate marble cake – Savane, for those of you who grew up in France – that would leave in your pocket in the morning only to be eaten as a mid-afternoon snack when reduced to a mess of crumbs.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t get over the fact it took me twenty-five years to realise that the églantine [rosehip] I use on a daily basis at the restaurant is the gratte-cul [itchy-bum] of my childhood; the one thing my dad used to tease me with when we went to the mountains with the hopes – most of the time, fulfilled – that our baskets would be full of chanterelles, sanguins, trompettes des morts, and other mushrooms by the end of day.
Last Sunday, I finished working at six. Now depending on where your heart belongs, you might think: version one ‘What the heck where you doing at work on a Sunday?’ or version two ‘Lucky monkey*!
A mandarine soup that tastes better than bitting into the real fruit. The crunch of dark chocolate.
I always seem to think I don’t like citrus and chocolate. But I do.