Spelt Dark Chocolate Chunk Cookies

Spelt Dark Chocolate Chunk Cookies “There is electricity dripping from me like cream; there is love dripping from me I cannot use – like acacia or jacaranda, fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.” – Diane Wakoski, from ‘Blue Monday’

I know we’re all here for the cookies. So, this isn’t going to be a proclamations of heaving breath kind of post. It’s a post about cookies. Good cookies. My favourite cookies. And after what felt like an eternity of tests, development and promises. Here they are. Spelt Dark Chocolate Cookies. The way I like ‘em. With crisp edges, soft centers and puddles of molten chocolate. Flaked salt, always mandatory. Oh, and a word on light. I don’t usually choose to photograph in the strong morning sun. But, the cookies were there, the light was warm and they were gleaming.

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Cherry and Almond Banana Bread

Cherry and Almond Banana Bread“I lifted eyes. Stared west. The Sun, rim down now, flamed to the unwinged, utmost, blank zenith of sky. I stared till flame color, blood color, faded to dusking colorlessness, and the first star, westward and high, spoke. Then, slowly, night.” – Robert Penn Warren, from ‘Part of What Might Have Been a Short Story, Almost Forgotten.’

It feels good to be back in the swing of things. I love travel, leaving. The flee consumes in joy far more than any other sum of parts. I desire to go everywhere, and yet, I desire to go nowhere. To wander, endlessly. Into the depths of our own oblivion. The strewn fields of melancholy, all hyacinth and musk, endlessly searching for completion. Livingness. Heat. Maybe that’s love. To consume.

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Vienna | Roam

Vienna | RoamBeauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers the dust from which it came.” – Edna St. Vincent Millay, from ‘Autumn Chant’.

The last time I was in Austria, I was barely old enough to remember. There’s something incredibly arresting about coming home to a place so familiar yet so foreign. A strange remembrance that only exists from experiencing life and culture as youth. Things remain the same, people remain the same, though, not quite how I left them. All-the-more familiar, and all-the-more forgotten. The return, in rush of memories and poetic intoxication. She drinks the world as honey.

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Hazelnut Streusel and Brown Butter Apple Pie

Hazelnut Streusel and Brown Butter Apple Pie “Here is a moment of extravagant beauty: I drink it liquid from the shells of my hands and almost all of it runs sparkling through my fingers: but beauty is like that, it is a fraction of a second, quickness of a flash and then immediately it escapes.”– Clarice Lispector, from ‘A Breath of Life’.

I’m currently in Paris. Writing this, in my Marais apartment. Paris is everything I thought it would be. And more. The roric mornings, all mildew and stone-cold softness. The heat of the day, in blood, smoke and flames. The evenings, drenched in old tobacco and glistening with fervor. I’ve learnt to anticipate the arrival of each distinct moment just as I’ve learnt to adapt to living temporarily within different parts of the world. This body, shedding various ulterior skins depending on need. Upheaval, always. It’s the only way for me to keep blossoming. I need continuous change. Never pacification. And beauty. Always, beauty.

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Rose Apple Frangipane Tart

Rose Apple Frangipane Tart“Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.” – Nikos Kazantzakis from ‘Report to Greco’

Dear love. I’ve fallen again. Thank life. I leave for Paris tomorrow. The smoking, opiate stained Paris, I’ve always dreamed of. Dreamed in. The streets that coat, the blanket of night that consumes. Loving, flowering, unfolding like a rose. Pastel petals in hue and fragrant in scent. Dying breath. Faded dreams. The sparkling brilliance of Summer. Heat in full song. If my inner longing was a place, it would be Paris.  

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Fig and Almond Layer Cake

Fig and Almond Layer Cake

“The secrets inside her mind are like flowers in a garden at night time, filling the darkness with perfume.” – Fumiko Enchi

A Fig and Almond Layer Cake. For times of sheer sorrow and self. Gluten-free. Still as good. It’s a cake that’s a little kinder. A little lighter. A little better for everyone. But nonetheless, still cake. In all its salacious exaltation. It’s a situation of six jaconde sponge cake layers. The use of jaconde instead of regular cake, a total saving grace. It’s feather-light. Aerated and almond flavoured. There’s a vanilla bean amaretto simple syrup to soak too. And a smothering of fig jam between. A sweetly scented orange blossom ricotta swiss meringue buttercream coats the entire cake. Kept thin, to reveal each solitary layer. The use of ricotta, a new incorporation I can’t be without. I don’t want to be without. And then there’s a dark chocolate drippy glaze to adorn. It’s total sacrilege to do the cake without it. Please, do the glaze. It’s a dream kind of cake.

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