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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Spiced Chocolate and Halvah Babka

Spiced Chocolate and Halvah BabkaI love the autumn-that melancholy season that suits memories so well. When the trees have lost their leaves, when the sky at sunset still preserves the russet hue that fills with gold the withered grass, it is sweet to watch the final fading of fires that until recently burnt within you.’ – Gustave Flaubert, an excerpt from November

I haven’t sat down to write for the longest while. It feels as if I’m afraid of the whisperings within before I even start, serpentine in their hidden malignity. Asphyxiated by the desire for completeness, the scattered and fragmented impulse of inner weeping’s that exist purely to strangle the contours of my split soul. And it’s with my own two hands that I do the strangling. I’ve always considered mess to be beautiful. Mess of consciousness? All I ever demanded of myself is that I never truly wake to it. And now the forest is on fire, created by my ache for finality that built the stone that cultivated the wood and inflamed my second skin. And when then the ashes clear and reassemble themselves into new terrain, I breathe myself again into a new wild.

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Pistachio Custard Morning Buns

Pistachio Custard Morning BunsMine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.” – an excerpt from Awakening Osiris: The Egyptian Book of the Dead

I have always allowed myself to dream. It’s the only thing I know how to do well. The world is dark, as dark as night. With rare moments of illumination. But more often than not, those come few and far between. The weight of my insurmountable past chokes and stifles. Like the strangler fig, devouring one breath and consuming the other. The more you fight the more it constricts. And so, I release. Even flowering can happen in the dark.

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Marzipan Cake with Gin Blueberries and Brown Butter Swiss Meringue Buttercream

Marzipan Cake with Gin Blueberries and Brown Butter Swiss Meringue ButtercreamIn these moments where an abyss opens up in my soul, the tiniest detail distresses me like a letter of farewell. I feel as if I’m always on the verge on waking up. I’m oppressed by the very self that encases me, asphyxiated by conclusions, and I’d gladly scream if my voice could reach somewhere. But there’s this heavy slumber that moves from one group of my sensations to another, like drifting clouds that make the half-shaded grass of sprawling fields turn various colours of the sun and green.” – Fernando Pessoa, an excerpt from the Book of Disquiet

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Brown Butter Cookie Meringue Bars with Espresso Fleur de Sel

Brown Butter Cookie Meringue Bars with Espresso Fleur de Sel
“I swam under water as if I really did not want to return to the surface, as if I wanted to stay below with the fish.” – Anaïs Nin, Summer 1942

I have days of escapism and nights of no-return. These past few weeks saw the return to forgotten surroundings. And the arrival of lost memories. A refuge to the sea. A sea so engrained within my flesh and blood, that if I was to slit my throat and bleed, I would slowly stream salt, sand and the shrill swan song of swallow. It’s never easy to come home to the thing you grew from. And the more you try to clutch and fight, the more it’s carnal desire eats. I feel as if I possess inside me the ebb and flow of the ocean. And at any given moment, the tide will swell to the point of drowning.

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Classic Chocolate Chip Cookies

Classic Chocolate Chip CookiesEverything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.” – David Foster Wallace, an excerpt from Infinite Jest.

I bake cookies often. Not for any particular reason, other than I find them the most efficient thing to satisfy in times of sweet craving. There’s an entire section dedicated to cookies in the left of my freezer, with at least one hundred dough balls stashed. They sit tightly contained next to discs of pie dough and left-over streusel, from the times I made too much. All labeled and categorised according to date and type. There’s bags of classic chocolate chip and bags of my favourite spelt dark chocolate chunk kind. There’s bags of brown butter and milk chocolate too. And then there’s a bag filled with the miscellaneous type. A few cookies made with sour cherries and hazelnut, a few cookies made with peanut butter chips. And the odd, stray, m&m. The miscellaneous bag is known to be either hit or miss. And yet, I still keep them. For my taste preferences shift on whim and change as fast as the strength of season. A Classic Chocolate Chip Cookie though, will forever be a favourite.

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