if my mother's my muse, my sister's my superwoman
a random call from sherborne made my day, along with the settled plans of meeting up in london around may-ish. with people here and there and everywhere these days, this is indeed something worth looking forward to.
and just as i'd like to call it a day, a sweetheart from the states confessed her loneliness along with some catching ups and morning/midnight blabber. a proof of it all: a post-it on top of my table lamp scrabbled with a to-be psychiatrist's number. talking about friends for benefit.
for a long time in a long while. it felt like what it used to be. safe and sound.
is it the over-sized lavander carpet or the excess warmth from a sizzling heater? everything looked just like a year ago but it hardly felt anything similar.
as i woke up to an unexpectedly warm sunday morning, i decided to turn some pages back to the regina spektor days. and the list goes on: dido, norah jones, kt tunstall. so london. so paris.
even the air smelt like its time to make a debut on tarte aux pommes.
everything happened according to plan, until i realise i got everything but the short pastry. and how can tarte aux pommes happen without the tart? so a simple task of picking up stuff ended up with an extra half-an-hour drive to the nearest frozen food counter.
apples are best served in their simplest form. (i remember i read that somewhere but if i didn't, well, consider it a good homemade quote). and to work the applepie x tarte aux pommes magic i decide to replace all that french custard with cognac with mere mushed boiled apple sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.
its funny how things fall into place: the wrong pan lemon-less dicing an extra pinch of salt here and there slicing failure rose apples instead of granny smith
i tell myself: if this is possible, i'll get myself a julia child cookbook and enroll in a self-taught 6 credit course on french cooking 101.
and voila! bon appetite.