Salted Hazelnut Bourbon Blondies with Cacao Nibs and Figs

Salted Hazelnut Bourbon Blondies with Cacao Nibs and FigsI, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of-songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst.Hélène Cixous, an excerpt from ‘The Laugh of Medusa.”

The beginning of the year has been an endless outpouring of flux and floods. Storms, I could drown the world with my fingertips. The sea is against me, all I desire to do is swim. I swirl, uncontained, I burst rivers, I crash the shore, I cascade and fall, I swell and get swollen, I beat against the break, my fingers, an eternal stream of downpour, I wring them out, I storm, rivers overflow onto beds and our whirlpools collide, the current carries me away. I drown beneath the high-tide, I drown, I am all tide. I am all ocean.

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Bitter Chocolate Olive Oil Cookies with Buckwheat and Salt

Bitter Chocolate Olive Oil Cookies with Buckwheat and SaltI walked for hours in those forests, my legs a canvas of scratches, trading on the old hopes – we were meant to be lost.’ – Joanna Klink, from 3 Bewildered Landscapes: Excerpts from a Secret Prophecy.’

I have notebooks. Full of illegible scribbles and dog-eared pages. Notebooks with coffee stains, grease smears and spills. Some pages are stuck together, and I have to gently pry them apart so the ink doesn’t smudge. I write all my recipes in these books. The words might begin on one page and stop on the second. Resuming on the fourth. And carried deep into the sixth. I never write down the method. Only ever measurements. Sometimes just the ingredient. I don’t return to these notebooks often. But when I do, I only follow the stained pages. The dirtier the page, the better loved it is.

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A Week in New Zealand

A Week in New Zealand“I have breathed in deeply all the honeysuckle-perfumed air, the sunshine, the snowdrops of winter, the carouses of spring, the primroses, the crooning pigeons, the trills of the birds, the entire procession of soft winds and cool smells of frail colors and petal-textured skies, the knotted snake greys of old vine roots, the vertical shoots of young branches, the dank smell of old leaves, of wet earth, of torn roots, and fresh-cut grass, winter, summer, and fall, sunrises and sunsets, storms and lulls, wheat and chestnuts, wild strawberries and wild roses, violets and damp logs, burnt fields and new poppies.” – Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin

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Gingerbread Whisky Cake with Brown Sugar Swiss Meringue Buttercream and Milk Chocolate Ganache

Gingerbread Whisky Cake with Brown Sugar Swiss Meringue Buttercream and Milk Chocolate GanacheAnd all my soul is scent and melody.’ – Charles Baudelaire, an excerpt from ‘Les Fleur du Mal.’

Gingerbread Whisky Cake with Brown Sugar Swiss Meringue Buttercream and Milk Chocolate Ganache. It sounds like a mouthful, and make no mistake –  it is. It’s cake that demonstrates my adoration for the flavours of the season. A cake inspired by the new fragrance from the Christmas collection at dusk – Gingerbread. It wholeheartedly embodies everything I need this season to be and more. Warmth. Heat. Sweetness. Spice. Exuberance. Drunkenness. Laughter. With each feeling embodied in a single, dulcet, slice of cake.

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Wild Entanglements and Smoke Cake

Wild Entanglements and Smoke CakeThis is why blind Orpheus praises love and why love gouges out our eyes and why all lovers smell their way to Dover. That is why innocence has so much to account for, why Venus appears least saintly in the attitudes of shame. This is lost children and the deep sweetness of the pulp, a blue thrumming at the formed bone, river, flame, quicksilver. It is not the fire we hunger for and not the ash. It is the still hour, a deer come slowly to the creek at dusk, the table set for abstinence, windows full of flowers like summer in the provinces vanishing when the moon’s half-face pallor rises on the dark flax line of the hills.” – Robert Hass, an excerpt from ‘Praise.’

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Fresh Mint Ganache Tart

Fresh Mint Ganache TartInch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I’d languished. I gave birth to my definitive being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.’ – Fernando Pessoa, an excerpt from The Book of Disquiet.

Today marks my birthday, twenty-two on the twenty second. That’s eight thousand and thirty days lived. And a further million ways to have grown. There are a hundred things I fear. Least of all age, most of all myself. And a thousand ways to be loved and left. The only thing I know for sure is that life’s reliable in its unpredictability. And all I’ve ever desired is that I continue to feel it’s warmth. To hear the rustle of fallen leaves during the autumn eve. To inflame under the heat of sun. To wilt beneath the blanket of night. I demand to be in accord with the highest of feeling, to drink poison from the fragmentations of moment that re-assemble themselves into new day.

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