The day Paul Walker died we were in New York City. We had dinner reservations at Acquavit that night, where we found ourselves indulging in everything tasty Scandinavia may have to offer amidst warm light and warmer service. There were plates that married tapioca pearls and quail egg, langoustine and sea urchin, sardines and elderberries, foie gras and radish, cod and sunchoke, squab and apple, white chocolate and a bird’s nest, smiles and hands holding each other across the table. Continue reading “The day Paul Walker died”
When I get up in the morning at 6.30 am it is still dark outside. I jog downhill to the gym through San Francisco’s moist and cold, and it smells of fried bacon on some street corners, and burnt wood on others. I hold my maze spray in hand, because – you never know.
Every Saturday, Nicola and I embark on adventures we like to group under the heading ‘Special Saturday.’ We take turns in deciding what novel activity could fill our Saturday, and have a lot of fun plotting during the week to reveal our plans to the other on Saturday morning. Last week’s visit to the Botanical Garden had been my ‘Special Saturday’ pick. So this week it was Nicola’s turn and he decided we should take a scooter trip to Sausalito. Here we go.
Oh, life. One moment things are are steady, the pace of life as per usual, the course of events calm and orderly. The next moment, you find yourself packing a suitcase for an out-of-the-blue cross-Atlantic flight home for document-related matters, demanding in-person-appearance and illustrating the nuisance that is German bureaucracy like nothing else. It’s a routine event shaking up my routine.
In which I am sending nothing your way but much love, pictures of this delicious breakfast and of this delicious man, who when sent to Trader Joe’s to purchase Tofu, returns with Tofu and a bunch of red roses. Happy Wednesday!
Our upcoming Hawaii vacation fills me with a sense of indescribable excitement, joy, and anxiety. Bikini anxiety. Which I write jokingly, obviously, because all of the beaches on Hawaii are so secluded, no one will actually see my non existent abs in nothing but two small pieces of water-resistant clothing, right? Right. Jokes aside, there are more important things to focus on in summer than obtaining the perfect beach body and that’s finding the perfect frozen yogurt place. Because you only live once, and life is too short for icy frozen yogurt, and because of all the other inspirational sayings about froyo.
I don’t think it’s much of a secret that I am a sucker for all things sweet involving oatmeal and fruit. There are few things I enjoy as much as chewy, nutty, wholesome bites of a granola bar with my afternoon cappuccino. Except for that one caveat: store-bought granola bars are either so loaded with fat and sugar they cover a grown man’s daily calorie intake requirements, or–and I’m pretty sure this is worse–they taste of sticky nothingness with a hint of artificial sweeteners.
If you have previously heard about the concept of Third Culture Kids–people who have spent significant parts of their developmental years outside their parents’ culture, and as a result have developed their own ‘third culture’–then shame on you. How is it possible that no one has ever explained my struggles, relationship patterns, confusion, and general me-ness to me, by pointing out that I am, quite clearly, a Third Culture Kid?
One of my favorite things to do in San Francisco by far is eating dim sum for lunch on the weekend. Dim sum are bite-sized and steamed pieces of Chinese heaven, filled with lobster and water chestnuts and snow pea tendrils and ginger and pine nuts and pork and cilantro and every now and then also carrots. Dim sum is just. So tasty.
I was a bit skeptical, I will admit. But it turns out that stuffing zucchini flowers with silken tofu was a good idea, and one that pleased the palate. But don’t take my word for it. If a man, who considers prosciutto to be a good side for a plate of meat, eats a soy-bean-stuffed flower and asks for more, it’s really good.
Oh, it’s summer, and summer means it’s wedding time. Chances are all of your early thirty something friends are getting married right now. Ours are. We kicked off the wedding season this weekend, and joined Nora and Enrique as they partied away into holy matrimony. Don’t you just love this time of year? The endless flower arrangements, glasses of sparkling, drunken relatives, and decadently sweet wedding cakes? To my immeasurable disappointment, the latter two were mysteriously absent from Nora and Kike’s wedding.
Scandinavians are peculiar in many ways, and I say that with the utmost love and affection towards humankind of the Northern European variety. After having lived in Copenhagen for some years, as well as in the unofficial capital of Sweden that is Barcelona—I met so many Swedes there it made me wonder whether anyone was actually left in Sweden—part of me likes to secretly consider herself scandinavianized. Driving to IKEA in California makes me feel homey and whole and that’s a sensation brought forward not only by hotdogs you get to top yourself and $1 soft serve cones.