The end. Of this, that is.
I was writing when the timer went off. Upstairs, sitting cross-legged in front of my laptop.
It wasn’t as cold as the outdoors would suggest.
Don't you love canon 400D ?
Through the wrong end of a telescope
I look through the window. And this is all I see. Rain and trees that snow.
The very spectacle of April happening before my eyes. But no matter how breathless it makes me feel – every single year – I somehow wish for more.
Bonjour mars, au revoir mars
[Hello March, goodbye March]
I’ve felt raindrops running through my hair; and my dress too. I’ve made a cake. And another one too.
I’ve seen blossoms on every tree. I’ve walked in empty avenues, with my eyes closed and his hand on mine.
Find a map and draw a straight line – Chewy flapjacks
I started collecting objects, to make up for memories I forgot. A blue pool ball, a broken cigarette, a plastic table number.
I read words. Most of the time, at night.
She fell in love with…
PS. Not of the one thousand and six hundred pounds kind (dreams). More of the tilt my own lens in front of the sensor. And yet, it feels just right.
Those three words – Gelée d’huile d’olives
[Olive oil jelly]
In autumn, with figs, a young brillat-savarin curd, and a warm sponge so full of vanilla seeds it’s almost grey. Perhaps, a few toasted and salted almonds for crunch.
In winter, with caramelised apples, a white chocolate granita – not unlike snow, crystallised rosemary, and fresh apple bubbles.
On breakfast for dinner – Bacon and egg sandwich
When home means finally-untangled hair, the sound of waves that won’t quit our minds – oh and of the shower he’s into two-open-doors away while this song is playing on repeat, only rain hitting the skylight is missing for the orchestra.
La vanille
It’s hard to play favourite with vanilla.
Tahitian vanilla (or for the geeks out there, and that includes me, Vanilla tahitensis) is a bit of a outsider – considered its the only vanilla to contain heliotropin – with its floral burst and nutty undertones.
Et des morceaux d’arbres tomberaient du ciel – Le cake très chocolat
[And pieces of tree would fall from the sky - The ultimate quadruple chocolate loaf cake]
I plan to spend this autumn collecting dead leaves and horse-chestnuts, drinking coffees with warm mittens on, drawing the nights away, and day-dreaming about je ne sais quoi.
On summer secrets – Feta and lemon dip
This is what happens when it’s summer. Or at least when it feels like it.
We swim in the sea, or more accurately, we’re forced by that wave which chose the exact moment we stepped into the water to break into – what feels like – a herd of horses.
A little sweller – Petits quatre-quarts, au chocolat ou pas
[Little poundcakes, with chocolate or not]
It smells like the week-end around here. Actually, it’s been smelling like it for a week now.
And boy, week-end does smell good. Just-brewed coffee and toasted baguettes.
A lucky strike with tangzhong 湯種 – Petits pains au lait à la japonaise
[Japanese-style milk buns]
It was a night of early winter, I think. It was possibly raining. And dark.
I can’t remember for sure, but it seems right.
I weighed flour and water in a pan.
Roadtrips et autres histoires – Cake au maïs, comme à Caravan
[Roadtrips and other stories - A cornbread just like at Caravan]
Sometimes, all I want is to put my warmest boots on, and escape to a place outside of time. I would drive there for hours.
Ensemble, c’est tout – Pancakes tous simples
[Together, that's all - Very simple pancakes]
It was a morning like no other.
That day, we woke up to clouds around us. Some call it fog, but living in the clouds somehow feels more right.
On water and flour – Cong you bing or green onion pancakes
There is something about flour bond with water. Something that possibly goes back to those afternoons spent sat on the kitchen counter, watching my grand-mother making pâte brisée [shortcrust pastry], which I would – of course – nibble on.
Skinny dipping – Double chocolate profiteroles
I haven’t been hanging out with my laptop much lately. You see, I’ve been sort of busy doing this. And some unexpected things. Of the good kind.
Like a lunch at Mauro Colagreco‘s Mirazur – which you will certainly hear of next week – and the less-than-occasional dip in the waves.
Comptine d’un autre été – Des chouquettes
[Lullaby from another summer - Sugar choux puffs]
I could tell you how my dad would take me to the boulangerie after school, as I was smaller than the smallest tree of your garden.