Bread in a cold kitchen
Autumn means longer proofs. Twelve hours in the fridge, then two on the counter, and the crumb finally opens up. Writing down the timings so I stop guessing every year.
Short notes on reading, cooking and slow travel.
Autumn means longer proofs. Twelve hours in the fridge, then two on the counter, and the crumb finally opens up. Writing down the timings so I stop guessing every year.
Essays travel better than novels: you can stop at any station. This month it was a collection on gardens, a history of maps and a thin book about walking.
No bookings, one backpack, regional trains only. The best meal was in a town I had never heard of, at a place with four tables.