journaling
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I’m preparing multiple special events for next week (breakfasts and dinners). For two days this week that has meant making bofrot (pronounced “boh-froot”), a Ghanian donut. Well, in my mind they’re a donut. Other chefs have called them fritters, dough balls, and beignet. Call them what you will, I’m still the guy making a little
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In New York I got to see Klimt’s painting “Hope”. To my uneducated eye his paintings usually make me think of illuminated manuscripts for some reason. In person it reminded me of a chapter I read in a book last summer: Sometimes nothing can be done to change things, and hurt and anger must be
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Photos from last week’s trip to Poughkeepsie, Long Island, and Manhattan. Poughkeepsie reminded me of Staunton or Charlottesville. The Hudson Valley is a beautiful, lush place with wonderful food. The double chocolate croissant at Anna et Pierre was poetry. The Quattro Falso at Rossi and Sons was too good to stop eating, and their cannoli
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This evening I am sitting on my front steps in sweat pants, socks and a t-shirt. It’s just over 60°F and because the sun is being masked by a single, long, dark cloud I am able to tolerate the bright white pages of my journal. I’ve put CTRL on the record player; I can hear
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Valentine’s day’s stream of thoughts, clock-wise: Notes for strawberry chocolate pie, A tiny ‘zilla from the Liz, Challah cross-section, I am missing the Liz, Tiny chocolate hearts, Delivery in Ashland.
Dinner For Suckers 