Sea ice around us

Let’s rewind to the exact moment when the clocks didn’t even notice when one minute past midnight happened. We didn’t either, really. And that’s why this article is here. One month and seven days too late. So much is about to happen though that I just couldn’t not tell you. Have a wonderful not-so-new year. xx Things I’ve started to do again: – drawing. It ...

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No other day than a Sunday – Clafoutis aux myrtilles, le Paris Pastry Club

[Blueberry clafoutis] The recipes I make don’t come in printed words. They come in barely-readable letters that I’ve written too fast. Felt-tip pen codes, more often than not smudged with water, or butter, or as you’ve heard me say before, chocolate. Ingredients quantities are crossed out and forever adjusted. I keep those notes in identical notebooks; black leather and square-lined pages, at times blank or ...

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Oops #1

Three cuts and eight eggs on the floor later, the cake came out of the oven. As a reminder that heatproof means heatproof, and not just a random glass bowl. You see disasters happen in my kitchen too. Most likely even more than in yours. Oh well, oops! PS. My grand-mother nows calls me Hiroshima… Just to give you a hint of the extent of ...

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There are only so many things I know

Yes, there are only so many things I know. Making wishes, of the fairylike kind. The taste of his lips; and the feeling in my stomach that it’s all just like a dream. The smell of fresh yeast when brioche is being made. The beauty of fireflies around me. Being lost in the fog. The flavour of roasted rhubarb and melting vanilla ice-cream. Crab hunting ...

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Bonjour novembre

[Hello November] Is it just me, or do you also feel like that – more than any other month – tarts belong to November? It usually happens without a warning. And without a calendar. A day or so after waiting on the sidewalk – jumping, whistling, screaming – for a cab to have its light on. Oh yes, it is indeed the thirty-first of October, ...

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Instants, dans la cuisine

[Moments, in the kitchen] Sat at the table for breakfast. A breakfast that smells of toast and salted butter – the one with crisp fleur de sel – and, of course, coffee. My grand-mère talks too much in the morning, but for all the gold in the world, I wouldn’t want to stop her from doing so. Her stories and her laughters. Our laughters, in ...

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The smell of the ocean

Today, I booked a flight to a place I haven’t been in a year. But even with my eyes closed, I would still be able to ride my bike to the little fortress by the marais [marsh]. With the sound of the wind through the wheels as the only music, and the smell of the ocean écume [froth] as the only perfume. And I can’t wait ...

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Du pain sur la planche

[Bread on the board]* Other than grazing at the London sky for hours, being stuck in bed for the past six days has also given me the chance to learn that Oxford University is sort of breaking-up with the Oxford comma – now, we have a problem here; my life depends on serial commas (and this is no understatement). Oh, and I also had some ...

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