I can share a more details

I'm a bit distracted. In the best way possible. In the way I get now and then when I'm excited about an idea or a prospect. It started in Portland last month, when I had a happenstance chat with a couple of ladies I admire very much. They gave me the little nudge I needed to start thinking more seriously about a project I'd been casually tossing around in the back of my mind for years. Something fun, something related to what I already do, but something I haven't (exactly) tried before. Vague, I know. It's early in the process. Anyway, the rabbit hole is deep, and I feel like I'm way down in it. I've been caught up in inspiration boards, and ideas, and list-making, and all the things that happen when an idea shifts from the abstract to "let's try it Office Decoration?"...Correspondingly, meals have been scavenged from whatever ingredients are within eight feet of where I'm currently sitting. Which, let's be honest, doesn't always yield something I'm proud of. That said, lunch on Monday was pretty great, and dead simple. I smeared avocado across toasted day-old slabs of sesame bread, layered a bit of arugula and a few stalks of garlicky caraway-sprinkled asparagus on that, then finished it up with a few pepitas hong kong sehenswürdigkeiten.

These little open-faced tartines took less than ten minutes to pull together, and ended up being the epitome of spring. I suspect I'll be eating more of them in the coming weeks. Give them a try, and in the meantime, I'm going to try and make a few things happen on this end so I can share a more details related to what I've been up to chloe sunglasses sale.



magic to a work environment

There is a tiny, thoughtfully curated bookstore on a North-west corner of San Francisco's Potrero Hill neighborhood. I was a few minutes early for a lunch nearby and couldn't help but pop in for a quick browse. Five minutes later I walked out with Lunch at the Shop: The Art and Practice of the Midday Meal. It is an inspired volume by long-established Seattle book store owner Peter Miller celebrating the simple pleasures achieved by taking and appreciating (what I consider) a proper lunch. The emphasis is firmly put on food that is simple, fresh, thoughtful, and often communal. Said another way - lunch doesn't need to be complicated or elaborate to be meaningful designer sunglasses sale.

Lentils folded into Yogurt, Spinach, and BasilLentils folded into Yogurt, Spinach, and BasilLentils folded into Yogurt, Spinach, and Basil

Taking time for lunch. This book struck such a note with me because there are few things that can make more of a difference in your day than this gesture. It's something I believe in, and something I do my best to put into practice whether I'm sitting down by myself, with a few friends, or with many. There is something incredibly positive and optimistic about this small volume with the happy, tomato-red cover. On a practical level it is filled with thoughts and advice on how to eat well, pace your day, and stock your work pantry...but it comes together into something beyond the sum of its sections and chapters. I love that it exists as a reminder of how important this break in the day can be - how it can help relationships grow, how it can help energize, nourish, and revive, and how in-sourcing lunch can bring a bit of magic to a work environment marie france.

I made the Lentils folded into Yogurt, Spinach, and Basil. A double batch, in fact. It was enjoyed on walnut bread, tartine-style, for multiple days. Friends that can't handle wheat or gluten can enjoy this combination on appropriate crackers or wrapped in a sturdy, fresh leaf of romaine lettuce. It has lentils, loads of spinach (arugula is great too), herbs, and Greek yogurt - a hearty, healthy, satisfying line-up of ingredients that set you up strong for the rest of the afternoon alexander hera!


we even took out the trash

Every now and then, something comes over me, and I produce. With no real hunger or purpose, I make, say, three mini-loaves of fancy banana bread, a batch of strawberry scones, a loaf of sourdough, and barrelfuls of Italian vegetable soup—all in less than twenty-four hours, and mostly on a Friday night, no less. Behold the pinnacle of geekiness! But because a girl’s got to keep these things in check, I usually make sure that my bouts of industriousness are immediately followed by a good dose of sloth, generally in the company of someone upon whom I can foist some of the products of my labor. Hence Saturday night’s languorous session on the couch, spooning whipped cream and sipping wine, wearing unusually wavy bedroom hair, and snorting and guffawing in intentionally bad French with Kate. Whoever said that sloth is a deadly sin has obviously never spent an evening with us.

I arrived at Kate’s with a heavy bag of loot: a crusty homemade sourdough boule, my jagged-toothed Wüsthof bread knife, a wedge of bleu d’Auvergne from my personal ripening cellar (a.k.a. the refrigerator), a baggie of scones, and a Tupperware full of still-warm soup. Taking stock of our wares and coming up short, we ran down to DeLaurenti’s, barraged the poor wine saleswoman with inarticulate questions about Italian reds, and returned to Kate's with a bottle of Argiolas Perdera Isola dei Nuraghi 2002, jammy, spicy, and as fun to pronounce as it is to drink. I set the table—complete with the few napkins I didn’t set on fire at my birthday dinner—while she washed lettuce and handfuls of peppery watercress. With rain falling on the cold streets outside, we sat down to a warming winter dinner: steaming bowls of soup, hearty with carrots, cabbage, zucchini, Swiss chard, and sweet white beans,

and, on the side, greens with vinaigrette, creamy bleu d’Auvergne, and chewy bread.

And, because we needed to meet our regular whipped-cream quota, we collaborated on a now-routine-but-still-exhilarating gâteau au chocolat fondant, which, incidentally, gave me a chance to show off my natural grace in the kitchen. Not only did I drop a chocolate-batter-covered spoon on the floor and nearly knock over a pitcher of kitchen utensils while making the thing, but, once it was out of the oven and cool, I shot a knife across the kitchen trying to serve it. I just get so eager.

Kate, on the other hand, whipped the cream with uncommon elegance.

We collapsed onto the couch and, wine glasses and bowl of cream nearby, made fast work of the cake. Then, in only a couple of hours, we planned our entire lives and a cocktail party. Even in times of slothfulness, we can’t help but be productive.

And what’s more, before I left, we even took out the trash.

The rubbish chute is the highlight of every visit chez Kate. I adore it, and, knowing this, Kate saves her very best trash just for me. I’ve thrown into the chute's greedy mouth everything from a candy-coated apple to a bag full of mussel shells, and I can’t get enough of the clicketty-clacketty-THUMP! of trash tumbling down through the darkness. It’s pure heaven. Someday I’ll have a rubbish chute of my own, and I’ll fulfill my dream of sliding down it. I’ve long had visions of putting myself in small, confined spaces: cabinets, the space under airplane seats, and so on. When I was moving into my current apartment, I crawled into a corner cabinet in the kitchen and had my mother close the door behind me. It was strangely satisfying, if only for a few seconds. A rubbish-chute ride would surely be divine, if painful.

Coming home and sighing contentedly, I gave thanks for so much industry and indolence by turning out the light and tumbling down through the darkness to my bed.

chocolate-covered coconut macaroon

I’m generally very well-behaved, of a willpower that knows few equals. I can bake a whole mess of very treacherous and tempting stuff, stash it in the freezer, and peacefully coexist with it—no boundaries transgressed!—until the next dinner party, appropriate event, or emergency. But, dear reader, I’ve met my match, and it’s a chocolate-covered coconut macaroon.


For the first two decades of my life, I associated coconut strictly with the scent of cheap tanning oil, a very nasty substance indeed, and especially for a redhead whose skin has only two settings: pale and burnt. As a child, I had a deep-seated, visceral aversion to lotions in general and put up impressive battles whenever my parents approached with a bottle of sunscreen, so I’ve suffered more than a few horrendous, nausea-inducing sunburns, often at beaches and pools where the scent of tanning oil hung heavy on the air. Needless to say, coconut had a few hurdles to clear before it could elicit a positive reaction from me.

But shortly before my 21st birthday, I was conquered by a one-pound monster of a chocolate-covered macaroon from Max’s Café in Corte Madera, California. I was converted to coconut worship, and there would be no turning back. That summer, I bought those macaroons more often than I’d like to admit. They’re dense, tooth-achingly sweet, and rich enough to cause hot flashes, and I'd usually cut each into quarters and, with remarkable discipline, savor it over a couple of days. Only once did I throw caution to the wind, inhaling three quarters in a single evening and barely surviving—with much, much regret—to tell the tale. The episode dampened my enthusiasm for a few weeks, but I’d sufficiently recovered by my September birthday and, in a show of daring, requested a cake-sized macaroon as one of my two birthday cakes. Max’s central bakery in the South Bay had never before taken an order like mine, but they pulled through admirably, creating the biggest and most horrifyingly beautiful chocolate-covered macaroon I’ve ever seen. You can catch a glimpse of it on the cake stand on the left in the picture below, in which I’m laughing out the candles on my other birthday cake, a four-layer lemon-curd stack, in my very short hair and very questionable dusty-purple eye shadow and lemon-curd face paint, this last thanks to my cousin Sarah, who, even at age twenty-three, had to put her hand in the cake—and then on me Bordeaux.


All of which brings us to a few days ago, when, in the interest of not wasting six egg whites left over from a galette des rois, I scoured my accordion folder of recipe clippings and came away with a perfect solution: chocolate-covered coconut macaroons. This was clearly some sort of sign. Thus I did the only rational thing possible: I promptly marched to the grocery store and spent $12 on coconut, whipping cream, good bittersweet chocolate, and a bag of sugar to refresh my dwindling supply. Never mind the fuzzy logic of buying things to avoid wasting: although I might not make such a good Depression wife, I can bake a mean macaroon Flower delivery service.

This, however, is not good news. I can’t be left alone with these things, not even when they’re "safely" hidden away in the freezer. In fact, and what’s worse, I prefer them frozen. I've clearly met my match. Each time I walk into the kitchen, I feel like Odysseus, preparing to sail past the Sirens: for my own good, I should ask my neighbors to chain me to something solid and heavy, seal their mouths with anti-macaroon protective tape, and ignore my screams and pleas as they remove the (now half-empty) Ziploc bag from my freezer and carry it down to the dumpster in the parking garage. Short of this, my only hope for salvation lies in forcing the macaroons upon unsuspecting friends. Last night I gave three of them to fellow macaroon-lover Keaton, who ate one on the spot, moaning with pleasure. She has no idea of the danger now lurking in her kitchen. Oh Keaton, I’m so sorry property hk.


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