Paris | Roam

Paris | RoamParis at night. I step out of the restaurant into darkness. It is a sensual experience. I recognise no one. I stumble. I hear the voice of a man I am sure I could have loved, but he vanishes. Mysterious blue and green lights here and there.” – Anaïs Nin, September 1939

In some way or another, I always find myself back in Paris. All sunsets belong to her. All heat. All rain. All shadow. And memories too. My memories belong to Paris. She was unpredictable at best. Romantic, ethereal, but, nonetheless, unpredictable. Paris was sweltering heat and sporadic rain. Daylight that continued into midnight. Midnight that never lasted as long as the day. And once it was dark, it was dark. Much like this desire. The city at night, a maze of shadow, guided by the sole illumination of strewn light, winding tunnels or vagrant passages. I’m forever at her mercy.

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S’mores Brownies

S'mores BrowniesShe was my darling: difficult, morose – But still my darling.” – Nabokov, an excerpt from ‘Pale Fire.’

I realise that this post has been waiting longer than anticipated. But then Paris happened, so, my schedule went completely out the window. Life is consuming. Time, even more so. I still can’t believe that it’s only four months to the end of the year. For the most part, I’ve been laid bare beneath the darkness of dreams and doubt. Fulfilled in the illusion of impassioned loves and hates. Love and hate felt as equally in intensity. Never grey matter. Only the darkness of black in throes and the purity of white in vanquish. Sometimes, off-white. Though, that comes few and far between. The flit of rage in the air, happiness beneath the wall. The sun, existing to pounce the shadows. The shadows, existing to consume the sun. To say it, is to mean it. I do.

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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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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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