I went to Madrid for work the other week. I know, so glamorous, right! I flew over-night, went straight from the airport to the meeting, presented for three hours, then crept back to the hotel for a sleep. Awake, alert and fighting for action, I Guardian Tapas Bars, and pottered out for tapas and wine, and this is Awesome tapas restaurant, Madrid.
Fresh Peas are one of the great treats of the Summer. When I was a kid, they never made it as far as risotto, my Mum, my sister and I would sit on the patio swing slitting the pods open with one fingers, picking out the precious sweet peas, and devouring them.
Cherry season has arrived. Happiness abounds. One of the things I’m doing at the moment is writing a Market Watch column in the Village Voice, where I potter around various Farmers Markets and chat to people about what’s fresh and good this week. Cherries were the thing, even beyond rhubarb, that I was really excited to see hit the stalls.
Sometimes life demands cookies. When it does, these are the ones you want to have up your sleeve, or, better still, ready to go in your freezer. Continue reading
The other week we hosted a baby shower for our very good friends Jenn and Allen, who are adopting the cutest baby you ever saw, Baby Felix. We were so happy to celebrate with them – it’s been an incredibly long and heart-wrenching process – and we set about planning with zeal.
I love pickles. Pickled anything, pretty much. But especially pickled cucumbers. Salty. Sweet. Either way, if there’s a sandwich going, I would very much like a pickle on it.
“3 for 3†Jon texted modestly, upon winning the NASA hackathon again, and spending the day with not one but two bonefide astronauts.
Recently, I’ve been planning my work wardrobe around being able to wear leggings under things, and matching with my boots. The sidewalks are covered in gray ice. Salt stains the carpet. Things just got a little schlubby. Continue reading
The internet is down. We must telephone Time Warner.
It’s been 50 minutes. Jon paces the room ruffling his hair into an unruly afro. “I have pretty much no confidence that this is a path of enquiry that will lead to progress!†he tells the guy on the end of the line. He’s really really mad. “Pretty much no confidence,†btw, is British for this action is utterly doomed!
Some days, the wind blows in off the Hudson, through your coat, through your fluffy cardigan that looks as though it’s been made from the skins of Abominable Snowmen, through your thermals, through your skin, and straight to your bones. Continue reading
