In Defense of Recipes

Random Lunch: greens with goats cheese and pinenuts
and chickpeas with basil pesto

I've known two people in my life who have disagreed with my use of recipes. Both of them are relatives, and both are of the male persuasion and, it need not be said, but both deserve a swift kick in the backside.
The suggestion is that somehow I am less of a cook because I follow recipes.
I know, right? It's blasphemy.
In fact, I would happily challenge both of them to a duel in the kitchen starting with a spice rack showdown.
I've got spices that I'm sure they don't have and damn it, I know how to use them.

Nothing makes me happier than finding a recipe that I not only want to make again, but that is easy enough that I can wing it the next time. And soon enough, the technique, method or combination gets stuck in my head and becomes mine to improvise with. It's that point, the point where I don't need to follow the recipe anymore, that gives me freedom in the kitchen. The more I am able to improvise, the less I am confined to a cookbook, and less frequently do I stand in front of the fridge or the pantry not knowing what to make.

Of course, the quest is never ending. There are millions of recipes out there and only so much time to cook them. And sometimes you get yourself all geared up to try a new one only to find that you're out of baking soda or that your sour cream has gone moldy. And when a recipe goes wrong altogether, oy, that can have devastating consequences. Although temper tantrums are rare, I did once throw an innocent spoon at the wall in protest of a most craptacular recipe.

But this is our curse, right? The curse of the person who loves to cook, and who loves to see the reaction on people's faces when they try something we've made.
Gad. How I love to feed people.
What is that all about anyway.

Elsa Schiaparelli apparently once said: "A good cook is like a sorceress who dispenses happiness."
I like that.
Don't you?



*****************

Just a few of the online recipes I've made (and enjoyed) this month:

Chicken Enchiladas with Tomatillo Sauce
Banana Chocolate Chip Muffins
Marinated Zucchini and Green Bean Salad
Japanese-Style Fried Brown Rice
Sushi Bowl
Scallops with Tarragon Cream

Tidbits..

G and I aren't moving back to Toronto until January and we knew this would be our last Christmas on our own. So we shacked up in a hotel room on Christmas eve and went out for dinner to a Michelin starred Indian restaurant. I was a bit worried we'd be the only ones there but it seems quite a few people were craving a bit of Christmas curry. It was pouring rain on Christmas day and the streets of London were dead. We started the day off right with a full English breakfast, which seems to involve mass quantities of meat.

*****
By the time we got home it was time to throw the duck in the oven. I had never made a whole duck before, only the odd breast here and there. I completely expected it to be much like a chicken when it came to the carving but man that duck put up a fight. Clearly even the slightest difference in anatomy can throw me for a loop. Other than a few awkward minutes of wrestling with its drumsticks, the duck turned out really well.
We had Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream for dessert. I'm not even going to tell you how much I love those little chunks of cookie dough.

*****
Boxing day was especially poignant because we did in fact spend the day with our cardboard boxes, with special appearances by two black sharpies and many rolls of seriously sticky tape. By dinner time we even went so far as to order a pizza, which, as you know, came in a cardboard box.

And then we had some more of that cookie dough ice cream.

*****
In exactly one week's time the movers are coming to take all our stuff away. They're going to lock it up in some container and throw it on a boat. We won't see be seeing it again for anywhere from 6 to 10 weeks. Luckily we still have a ton of stuff in storage in Canada that we never got around to shipping to Europe so we won't be entirely without when we get there. You gotta love it when procrastination ends up working in your favour.

*****
We managed to sell our fridge, but the awkward part is that they're taking it 6 days before we are actually leaving. It's going to be an interesting 6 days. I have a feeling there may be some more of those cardboard boxes in our future.
With extra cheese, please.

Pass the gravy please

I wish you all the best holiday season ever.
It's been a good year, hasn't it?
Now go on-- go eat some turkey!

Packing up. Again.

one of 7 apartments in the last 4 years..


By some unexpected turn of events G and I find ourselves not settling into a calm after the storm of a wedding and a honeymoon as we had expected to. Instead we are surrounded by boxes, to do lists and a general state of disarray.
Yes, people, we are moving. AGAIN.

But this time it's a little different. We aren't just saying goodbye to jolly old England. We are marking the end of our 4 year European adventure and are finally heading home.

Toronto, here we come.

Two months ago, we had no idea that this is what December would bring. But here we are. We are excited to finally be part of our family and friends lives again- not just in a long distance way, but in a real, everyday sort of way. In 4 years our nieces and nephews have changed so much and, aside from a once a year trip home, we've missed out on their lives completely.

At the same time, it breaks my heart to leave behind the wonder that is around every corner in Europe, the extended family that I have here, and the friends that we have made along the way. And let's not forget the milder weather.
People, I was born and raised in Canada. But I HATE the snow and cold.

So yeah, we're happy and sad at the same time. You know how it is. We're both different people than we were 4 years ago when we left Canada. Our experiences have changed us, without a doubt. Even when I look back at who I was when I started this blog, how I cooked, and how I related to food-- I am not the same person now.
I have learned so much.

It was almost 3 years ago that I wrote my first post-- we were in some little apartment in the middle of Heidelberg. We never really knew when things might suddenly change and we'd be moving again but we took it in stride. Sometimes it was smooth sailing, and sometimes it was all I could do to keep from pulling my own hair out. But it's been an opportunity of a lifetime, and we are grateful for it. If you were reading my blog around the time when we left Paris, I was so stressed out by that point that I actually gave up on the blog. I'm handling it much better this time, but phew, I hope I don't have to move again for a long time.

So our European dream is over. And you know what? Despite the suddenness of the decision, I think we're ready to go home. For 4 years we kept moving, and kept wondering what we were looking for. We kept hoping we would find that perfect city. We never found it. In the end we realized that no matter where we live that without your family and friends there will always be something missing.

So, this little expat is going home. She's taking all her experiences with her and every day that I cook in my new kitchen in Toronto I will be reminded of my travels. When I sip my Mariage Frères tea I will think of Paris, when I see that can of pimenton de la vera in my spice rack I will think of the Borough Market in London and when I sit amongst my friends and family I will remember the 4 years that I was gone.

Wow, people. I'm going home.




********
We're heading home on January 8 and since I am in the process of packing up my kitchen please forgive me if I yap more about random stuff and less about cooking for the next couple of weeks!

Busted.

Oh LC. You broke my heart when you broke in half.

Ok yes, I have admitted before that I can at times be clumsy.
But I swear to you, I had no hand in this tragedy.
And I am kind of annoyed about that because it just doesn't make any sense otherwise.

There I was happily tending a roast when I saw that the bottom had started to burn a little. So, I added a splash of sherry.

Now hold on! I know what you're thinking. But the sherry had never in its life been refrigerated. It was as room temperature as room temperature could be.
And this is not a new technique I was employing. I have done this many times before because darn it the recipe said that's what I should do.

You see? I'm completely blameless.

Within only seconds, the whole oven had filled with smoke and there was my roast, teetering on the edge of a broken casserole dish.

I wish I could say that this was a fluke, but people, this is the 2nd Le Creuset casserole dish that I have owned that has met this same sort of unusual fate.

So what the heck is going on? What in the world happened?

I'm stumped people! Is it me, or is it LC? And what does this mean for our future relationship? Will I ever be able to depend on LC again?

Sigh. I'm so confused..

A little bit of miscellaneous

On the cobblestone in front of the Pantheon in Rome. Funny no?


*****
A few days ago I decided the time for homemade hummous had come. It hits me a few times a year. It's one of those foods that doesn't excite me all that much, but every now and then I just feel like beating up some chickpeas. And G likes it, so whatever, right? The problem is that he has recently begun to insist that the chickpeas should be peeled. I thought this was an INSANE idea but I actually found proof of this in other recipes. I was not happy about that.

So this time I actually stood there and peeled 2 cans worth of chickpeas.
Really.

It was about the most tedious thing I can imagine doing. It's not nearly as fun as, say, peeling fava beans, which I actually do get a kick out of. So I'm kind of wondering, do you think it's actually worth it to peel them? Does it affect the flavour of hummous, for instance? I'm hoping you'll say no, but I'm willing to hear your arguments.

*****
On the weekend I bought some pork ribs. I've bought them once before but I just coated them in a homemade barbecue sauce and threw them on the barbie. This would be only the second time in my life buying pork ribs, and this time I had to cook them in the oven. I knew I wanted to use my unopened can of treacle (the British version of dark molasses) and after conferring with a friend, I mixed the treacle up with some sweet chili sauce and soy sauce and lathered it all over the ribs.
Man were those good. Rich and dark like mahogany, slightly sweet with lots of caramelized bits.

They were nice and meaty too, not fatty like some can be. We licked those bones clean I tell you.

And then I knocked my wine over onto our new rug. And while I gasped in horror G just said "I'm glad you were the first one to spill something on it and not me." And then he went back to eating his pork ribs.
Gotta love it.

*****
On Saturday my aunt was in town and we met up at Harrod's intending to do some shopping. We soon realized the golden rule and that is this: Do not go to Harrod's on a Saturday 2 weeks before Christmas. That's all I've got to say about that.

We hightailed it out of there, and hopped in a taxi because it was pouring rain, again. Our destination was Moro. She had never been there before and I LOVE taking people there for the first time. I had chargrilled squid with harissa to start, and my main was a wood roasted pork with chickpea puree and cabbage with pancetta and chestnuts.
Yes, it was good. The main dish felt kind of Christmasy with the chestnuts, and I will take anything that has a sprinkle of pancetta in it.


*****
And I think that's about all I wanted to get off my chest.
Now about that chickpea thing.. Peel or don't peel?



_______________
(click on the label below for my other posts about Moro)

If there was any doubt that Christmas is coming...

The craziest Christmas cactus ever.


Ok, this has nothing to do with food. You cannot eat this. But my Christmas cactus is exploding with blooms and I felt compelled to share. Have you ever seen anything prettier?
All that pink!
G swears he has never seen one quite so.. bloomy..
My thumb is feeling so so green right now.

I have to tell you that I have this thing for plants. When they thrive I feel like a proud mother and it's a wonder I don't keep pictures of all my plants in my wallet to show off to everyone.
How crazy would that be.
It's so much more normal to just put them up on my food blog.
Isn't it?

Time is not on my side..

Holy moses, where does the time go? Didn't I just get off a train from Paris? You're probably thinking I'm still detoxing, that maybe it wasn't going so well and I've been curled up in bed swearing I will never drink wine again. (would never happen by the way, wine and I are the best of friends)

I assure you, I am fully detoxed, but I seem to have been sucked into some sort of time vacuum where I wake up every morning and think:
"Wait. What just happened?"


So I have no idea where the last 7 days have gone and the rest of this one is booked solid. The parents just arrived in jolly old england yesterday, and I am in official tour guide status mode.
Dad has already decided that I make my coffee way too strong. And this is a man who likes strong coffee.
I know, right?

Anyway, the fun is only just beginning. Because after they head off to visit family in the rest of Europe, a super duper* friend of mine from Toronto is coming to stay with us and her and I are going to paint the town red.
Sparkly red.
With maybe some splashes of orange.

Who knew October could be so darn fun?

Now, about that coffee..



*super duper is a phrase that is tragically under used. Don't you think?

On a Saturday.

Some feathered friends joined us for a drink by the river..

How it begins.

You lay in bed, wide awake, but it feels too early to get up. The birds outside seem to have lots to discuss, but the sun is not quite ready to make its appearance. The person beside you is breathing the breath of deep sleep, and you can tell it will be awhile before he opens his eyes.

So you stay there a bit longer. Lying on your back you put one arm behind your head and stare at the ceiling. Then you turn on your side, taking your pillow with you, but it doesn't calm your restlessness. You push the covers off you, and splash some cold water on your face in the bathroom sink. You look at yourself in the mirror as you brush the knots out of your hair.

You walk back into the kitchen and see those bananas again, and you wonder if you let them go past their prime on purpose. This isn't the first time.

You look at the clock.
6:10 a.m.
You remind yourself that he can sleep through anything.

So you get out the eggs, the butter, the sugar and milk and start mashing those bananas in a bowl. And the rest of the ingredients follow, now cluttered on your kitchen counter. You pour the lumpy batter into the muffin pan, and slide them into the oven. As they bake, you make yourself a cup of coffee, the smell of the dark roast mixing with the warm scent of bananas and nutmeg.

You sit down in the living room, coffee in hand, and consider reading your book, but instead you just stare out the window, where nothing is happening.

The birds chirp, and quiet snores drift in from the bedroom.

The oven dings and another weekend begins.

Woot! A new camera!

Pics of flowers, just because I can!

The day my camera broke was a sad day for me. I have been mourning it for almost 9 months.
Don't ask me why I waited so long to get a new one. Sometimes one must mourn at their own pace.
Sure, perhaps it was the laziness and not so much the mourning that is to blame.

Since that fateful day I've been using my wee "purse cam".. You know, that little one you buy to carry with you wherever you go?
I kept telling myself that that should be enough.
It's small and handy and silver--it matches my jewelry, you know?
But I lost a bit of steam people. I really did.
It was like owning an Ipod, losing it and reverting back to a walkman.
I know, it's a bit of an exaggeration, but I'm sure you understand.

But finally, oh happiness and joy, I am the proud owner of a brand spanking new digital SLR. (The Canon 400d if you are interested!)
And of course I've been taking pics of everything within arms reach of me. My socks, the doorknob, random hair elastics in the bedroom.

I'm feeling a bit out of practice, but it feels good to rediscover a beloved hobby again...

Did I already say Woot? Because I really mean it.

Introducing the bacon hat. Or: Please don't take a picture of me on a Saturday morning.

I told a friend recently that I can't do anything in the morning until I've had a shower.
She asked me a very valid question: "But don't you just love being lazy on the weekends and hanging out in your pj's?"

Oh boy do I.

I love it so much I will wake up on the weekend, head straight for the shower, get myself all cleaned up, and get back into my pyjamas to enjoy a slow and lazy morning in a state of perfect cleanliness.

Perhaps it's cheating, but this is how I roll.

Lately however, something is beginning to cramp my style.
And it goes by the name of Bacon.

Lately when I cook it the bacon fumes seem to be absorbed into every single strand of hair on my head. It is especially potent if you prefer smoked bacon, such as we do. It stays in there all day and every time I move my head I get a whiff of it. Even when I go to bed, I am still carrying around a halo of bacon.

I don't remember this being an issue for me before. Perhaps British bacon just has that kind of staying power.

This past weekend when the time for making bacon presented itself, I found myself hesitating.
I mean, I was already fresh and clean and my hair smelled like sunshine and lollipops.

So I expressed my concern to G.
He listened very, very intently but offered me no advice.
Mostly because he thinks I am insane.

A few minutes later he discovered that I had found my solution. There I stood with a frying pan in hand, and my freshly washed and dried hair tucked safely inside a shower cap.

And thus was born the bacon hat.

It's not sexy people, but put a girl in some skimpy pj's with a frying pan full of bacon in her hand, and I'm pretty sure your man won't even notice the shower cap.


Seriously.

Like two tea bags in a tea pot..

A tea bag hits me on the back of the head as I move sluggishly around the kitchen on Saturday morning.
"Oops. Sorry." he says, still half asleep himself.
"What are you doing?" I ask as he picks up the tea bag from the floor.
"Trying to get the tea bag in the tea pot."
The tea pot is on the counter, lid off, and he is standing about 6 feet away from it.
He lobs the tea bag a second time and again it misses.
I stop what I am doing, let out a big yawn, and watch him.
With each miss, we become more awake. Our exclamations become a bit more lively.
"Oooo."
"Close."
"Almost!"

And then I find myself saying: "My turn. Let me try."

And as I lob the tea bag about a foot too far to the left, I realize, we are so made for each other.

Two weeks! That's crazy talk.

I know, I've been a terrible blogger lately. I think it must be a serious case of writer's block. (Blogger's block?)

Is there a cure for that? Should I just drink more wine? Get a massage? Or maybe I should just buy some stuff. See, I feel inspired already just by the thought of it.

Either way, it has left my little Oswego Tea all quiet and lonely these past couple of weeks. But here are some bits and bites of the last 15 days of my life:

1. A friend of ours from Canada came to visit us. He said "eh" and it made me happy. We drank beer and played darts at the local pub. We all laid down on the grass in Hyde Park. I got to pet a horse's nose. Then we had a barbecue.

2. For the aforementioned barbecue I made my own homemade bbq sauce from an Ina Garten recipe.

3. It tasted really good.

4. We finally went to the Tate Modern. There was a can of beans with a wiener in it. It was art apparently, but it made my stomach growl so we left and went out for lunch.

5. I met up with Alessandra at Spitalfield's market--my first time meeting a fellow blogger since I moved to Britain. Let me tell you that she is some kinda nice. I liked her. Yep.

6. My neighbours had a party with an Elvis impersonator. I brought chana masala and G worried it was too spicy. Then he remembered we are in Britain and the Brits, well, they like it spicy. They ate it all up so I think I did alright.

7. I wiped out on my bicycle and my knee turned various shades of purple and yellow. My bike, on the other hand, had not a scratch on it.

8. I called a British guy 'dude' and he thought I was a surfer from California.


And that just about wraps it up.
I promise now that we're all caught up, I won't stay away so long next time. Okay?

Baby's got more back than she wants..

You know when you go to university or college and you celebrate your first taste of freedom by drinking ALL THE TIME for 8 months straight and then you inevitably gain weight and they call it the "freshman 15" ? Because if they give it a cutsie name it makes it ok, right?
Well couldn't someone have warned me about the British 10?
I mean really.

I'm blaming it on the beer.

In France, I rarely ordered beer when I went out because, well, I never saw a French woman do it and I caved under the social pressure. Oh and also, David said he wouldn't hang out with me if I did. The only time I did was when I was out with Cindy because together, it was nothing but good times, and that's just how we rolled.

Then I moved to Britain, where babies are weaned on beer and Yorkshire pudding is considered a light snack. (Ok, I exaggerate. But only a little.)

So, I reintegrated myself into beer drinking society, but I still couldn't seem to shake the French influence.
Nowadays, I never order a full pint, only a half. (I am just so dainty and ladylike now--thanks France!)
Listen, I'm half Canadian and half Belgian, so this is a big change. Beer runs through my veins, you know.

But it seems, even though I'm only ordering half a pint at a time, the calories still count.
Who knew?

So, the British 10 has reared its ugly head. Ok, it's more like 6, but it feels like 20 and a bag of chips.
This girl has got some work to do.
Otherwise I'm going to need some new pants.
I mean trousers.

But I'm not a hamster.. so what would you do?

Here's the thing. I love sushi.
I really LOVE sushi.
But G and I have this long standing issue about eating sushi --let's call it a competition of sorts.
I hate that it's true, but I ALWAYS lose.

Let me explain.
Let's say you order a cute little spicy tuna roll--you choose the maki version where it's cut up into 6 bite-sized pieces. You pick one up with your chopsticks, dip it in some soy sauce and pop it in your mouth. All is going smoothly and aren't you looking cute doing it.

Then you switch it up-- you turn your attention to the spider roll perhaps, the center of it filled with deep fried soft shell crab. (You love this one with all your heart).
You eyeball it.
Then you pick it up and eyeball it some more.
And you just know that sucker is not going to fit into your mouth without leaving you looking like a hamster saving up a lifetime supply of sunflower seeds. Because they do that, you know.

So I ask you: what's a girl to do?
I'll tell you what I do.
I try to bite in half. (Hangs head in frustration.)
This is not always successful and is often kind of sort of messy.

Am I the only one who finds it entirely unpleasant to be all Hammy Hamster and just pop the whole thing in my mouth? Not only do my cheeks bulge but inevitably my hand shoots up to cover my mouth to indicate that I am currently indisposed so please don't engage me in any conversation for the next 5 minutes while I try to chew this, before I choke on it and die.

By the end of our meal, you can clearly see the results of my efforts, and this is where G always wins:
his little soy sauce dish is pristine, while mine is filled with rice--evidence of my attempts to bite my sushi down to size. (Yes a second dipping is necessary, there must be soy sauce on each bite. It's the law!)

When he smiles at me because he "wins" again, I just tell him that it's only because he has a big mouth.
That's right. Uh-huh.
I still lose, but I totally get points for the comeback.

Wouldn't YOU want a spaghetti tree?

Noodle sprouts? I do have my fun...

April Fool's day doesn't really mean much to me. I can't even remember the last time someone has pulled a prank on me. Although there was that one time that I fumbled around a dark bedroom only to find that G had moved the bed into the other corner of the room.
But this was in July people.
So, really, what do I care about April Fool's Day? The only thing I like about it is that it marks the end of March. March is fine, don't get me wrong, but April is better. And that's all I've got to say about that.

But then I read this story about a prank the BBC pulled back in 1957, in which listeners were led to believe that spaghetti grew on trees, and a record harvest had been reported that year because of a mild winter.
Spaghetti! From a tree!
Some people actually believed it to be true, and called in to the BBC wanting to know how to grow their own.
These are the people that make me go "aww" and wish that I could be their friend, because they are so cute and gullible but they still obviously love food enough to want to care for and nurture their own spaghetti tree.
Maybe, just maybe, they hoped that they would have such a green thumb that they would manage to make that spaghetti tree grow other pasta shapes like rotinis (cute and curly!) or farfalle (everybody loves bow ties!).
I'm picking happy shapes because I'm imagining these are the type of people who smile all the time thinking about how great life is and how much greater it would be with a spaghetti tree in their backyard.
I tell you, if it WERE possible, I would want one too.

So happy April 1st people. Happy April 1st.

How to make me laugh without trying

I didn't intend to be so yappy these last few days, but here we are again.

Two things must be said to preface this brief story:
1. G sometimes talks nonsense when he's bordering that fine line between being asleep and awake.
2. In our household the term "snuggling hard" refers to any snuggle action that disturbs the sleep of the one being snuggled.

So..

Last night G went to bed earlier than I. When I finally called it a night, I crawled into bed with a bit too much gusto. My toes were cold and so I wormed my way as close to him as possible, disturbing him from his slumber.

These are the words he spoke:
"Don't snuggle too hard or you'll get stuck like that and I'll have to feed you peas."

And then off he drifted back to sleep.

Good to know though that if I ever find myself stuck somewhere, like in a well or something, that G would be right there saving the day by feeding me peas.

From Paris to London

I won't wax poetic about Paris. Paris and I, well we had our thing. We had our ups and we had a few downs, but it was the love of my life. I mean, I dreamed of Paris ever since I was a little girl in ballet shoes. So when I boarded that plane from Paris to London in December, I was more than a little heartbroken. It felt like I'd been dreaming the last 16 months and someone pinched me and I actually woke up.
Oh Paris. How I mourned you.
Cut to March 2007.
If Paris was the love of my life, London is my roll in the hay, that part-time lover that keeps your heart racing and has you wearing your best skivvies all the time just in case he shows up unannounced.
London, you saucy thing, who knew you'd thrill me so?

***

G and I found ourselves at a pub last night. Sometimes you end up at one filled with suits, other times you're sharing a pint with a slightly rougher crowd. Last night, there seemed to be an endless lineup at the cigarette machine, and the bartender, with her generous proportions, wore a too tight t-shirt with the word BOUNCY across the front. Bouncy, indeed. We watched a guy spinning his cell phone round and round on the table in front of him, and got into a discussion about whether a cell phone's spinability should be a consideration when purchasing one.
G says most definitely, I on the other hand, remain unconvinced.

***

And so it goes..

Spring. She is sprung.

Spring in Paris

Yesterday, a random "let's meet for an afternoon coffee" turned into an 8 hour walking tour of Paris with regular breaks at various cafes. My caffeine intake went through the roof, but damn, I sure got some good exercise. But the positive effects of those hours on our feet were quickly negated when the sun finally set and we decided it was time to switch from coffee to wine. But more caffeine would have kept me up all night, so I was really doing it with my health and well-being in mind. You see how I'm always taking care of myself.

The big excitement of the day was that I had my first celebrity-spotting experience. I won't deny that in these nearly 8 months that I've lived in Paris, I have wondered where the heck all the famous people are. Brangelina are photographed everywhere but I never seem to bump into them. If I did, I'm sure they'd want to take me out for a drink because I mean, you know, maybe they read Oswego Tea or something.

So anyway, there we were perched on a hard stool in a charming wine bar in the 5th, munching on a cheese plate, and right past the front window walks none other than Kristin Scott Thomas. It took all of .005 seconds for me to recognize her.
There was a subtle "Ah!" and a point and then "That's Kristin Scott Thomas." I tried my best to reel in my bug eyes.
Alisa, my wandering companion, nonchalantly informed me that KST actually lives in Paris.
I think she then flipped her hair to further accentuate the humdrum-ness of the sighting.
Well then.
But inside I was feeling pretty self-satisfied. Won't this make a great, albeit really short, story to tell my friends and family?
Then I realized that what it boils down to is this: "I saw Kristin Scott Thomas. The End. "
But still.
It's my story, and I'll tell it.

My legs were sore and aching when I got home so I took the hot water bottle to bed ignoring all warnings against doing so.. I woke up with 2 red patches on the back of my calves which screamed "You dork, you burnt yourself".

But it seemed a fitting end to an otherwise perfect day. Let me just say these 3 little words: Spring in Paris.. It doesn't get much better than that.

Window shopping

I'm having a word with the bird. Don't bug me.

What a difference a year makes

At this time last year, G and I packed up 4 large suitcases and moved ourselves from a tiny apartment in Sheffield, UK:


The Botanical Gardens in Sheffield in winter


to a slightly bigger apartment in Heidelberg, Germany:


The Alte Brucke, (The Old Bridge) and the Castle


Six months after that we packed it all up again, said goodbye to our beloved sausages and sauerkraut and freshly baked german pretzels and now we find ourselves here:





Wow. Life is good.