My cooking is becoming more sporadic as my family is dispersing in different directions. Still, I think about food far too much. This recipe is safe, though. It was created by a Professor Bosh, whose labours in the fields of Culinary services are so well known to all the world. At least those who read Edward Lear. (more…)
Strange, the things immigrants miss and long for. Never the predictable, seldom consciously. (more…)
I am listening to a recording of music by Astor Piazzolla, Histoire du Tango, with Cécile Daroux, flute and Pablo Márques, guitar. Soothing music when the window in my study looks like that of the butcher shop where my grandmother used to live. The world is blurred and the rain looks permanent.
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The warmest May in 140 years is over and this morning winter moved in. But winters here are not like real winters. The winters that live in my memory are harsh and real, predictable and in a sense therefore easier to accept. Here, winter comes and goes, with surprising sprinklings of summer inbetween everlasting rains. They are brighter, warmer and shorter than Swedish winters, but I still find them more difficult to live with. I am not romantizing, I think, because I returned to the black northern winter a couple of years ago and stayed for the hardest months. And it was like rediscovering winters as they should be. The kind of winter that is ingrained in me. Who would have thought it would be the winters that would bring on my home sickness?
