This week, a few questions from readers, all about baking:
I can never decide when I go snowboarding whether it’s that the scales fall from my eyes and I achieve clarity of vision, or it’s more that the blinkers go on, logic goes out the window and all I can think about is shredding the gnar.
I have a plan. I’m going to tap the thermostat up to “Caribbean,” suspend a dozen light therapy lamps like solar panels from my living room ceiling, change into a sun frock, pry open a beach chair, and lie upon it.
It was the winter of 1993. Dean and I (for he was not yet Chefhusband) had coaxed his elderly orange Volkswagon Rabbit over Roger’s Pass, en route from Kelowna to Winnipeg, where we’d spent my first ever Christmas with his family.
After a day spent touring the Points East Circle Drive on Prince Edward Island, on a warm evening in July, we make our way to Charlottetown, where our hotel room smells funny.
There’s a not-unwelcome chill in the air as I drive out of the city and into vegetable country.
If ever one needed an excuse to indulge their inner Hobbit, and enjoy a Second Breakfast, there was an official invitation back in September.
There were the pair of cottage cheese container lids snipped into spoked wheels and tinseled with kitchen foil.
When I receive feedback about my column and it begins to overflow like pop fizzing over the sides of a bottle, I know one of two things has happened.
It’s nearly suppertime when a double chirp alerts me to an incoming text from my bff of more than 20 years, from back when tinned mushroom soup thinned with a little milk was considered haute home cuisine.